LIBRARY 


OP 

GAUFOftNIA 

SAN  DIEGO 


ftc 


SPORTING  SKETCHES 


BRAVE   BROWN    BOB 


.SPORTING    SKETCHES 


EDWYN   SANDYS 

AUTHOR  OF  "UPLAND  GAME  BIRDS,"  "TRAPPER 
'JIM,'"   "SPORTSMAN   'JOE,'"   ETC. 


Ntfo  gorfe 
THE    MACMILLAN   COMPANY 

LONDON  :   MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  LTD. 


All  right  i  reserved 


COFYMGHT,  1905, 

BY  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY. 


Set  up  and  electrotyped.     Published  September,  1005. 


Nortoooti  $rrs» 

J.  8.  Cubing  fe  Co.  —  Berwick  &  Smith  Co. 
Norwood,  MM«.,  U.S.A. 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 

I.    THE  WITCHERY  OF  WA-WA 


II.  WITH   AND   AGAINST   THE   GRAINS  .  .  .  .         l8 

III.  THE  WIZARD  OF  THE  WETLANDS   *  .        .  -38 

IV.  BEACH-COMBERS  ........      55 

V.  A  BIT  OF  RIVER  ........      68 

VI.  THE  FISHING  OF  THE  FREE  FOLK      ....      83 

VII.  THE  FISHES  OF  OUR  BOYHOOD    .....      98 

VIII.  SOME  TRUTHS  ABOUT  TROUTING    v    .        .        .        •     "5 

IX.  THE  BEST  OF  THE  BASS      .        .  •  .        .        .        .126 

X.  A  MATTER  OF  MASCALONGE       .  •""  .        .        .        .     142 

XL  A  BIT  OF  SEA  FISHING       .        .  V  .        .        .        .155 

XII.  RAIL  AND  REED  BIRD         .        .  /  .        .        ,        .163 

XIII.  A  DAY  WITH  THE  WOODCOCK     .   ^  .        .        .        .173 

XIV.  BLUEFISH  AND  BLUE  WATERS     .   \s  .        .        .        .187 
XV.  A  VANCOUVER  SALMON       .        .  *'  .        .        .        .197 

XVI.  WOOD-DUCK  AND  WOOD-DUCK  SHOOTING   .  v      .        .    205 

XVII.  A  RED-LETTER  DAY    .        .        .        .   f  .        .        .    221 

XVIII.  PICKED  FROM  THE  PRAIRIE  PROVINCE   {  .        .        .233 

XIX.  THE  CONVERSION  OF  TRAPPER  LEWIS        .        .        .    260 

XX.  FOUR  OF  A  KIND         .        .        .        .  v    ,        .        .    274 

XXI.  THE  RUFFED  GROUSE  AND  GROUSE  SHOOTING  .        .    284 

XXII.  ROBERT  WHITE,  JR  .......        .    300 


vi  Contents 

CHAFTBR  PACK 

XXIII.  A  SKIRMISH  WITH  SQUIRRELS  .        .  .  .  .    317 

XXIV.  TURKEY  —  WITH  THANKSGIVING     '  .  .  .  -331 
XXV.  A  COLD  TRAIL  .       .        .        ...«/.  .  .  .341 

XXVI.  THE  WHITE  WOLF  OF  THE  NORTH     v    .  .  .    354 

XXVII.  IN  THE  HAUNTS  OF  THE  HARE        .  .  .  .    364 

XXVIII.  FISHING  THROUGH  THE  ICE      .        .  .  .  .    379 


SPORTING  SKETCHES 


Many  of  these  sporting  sketches  originally 
appeared  in  Outing.  For  the  privilege  of  present 
use  I  am  indebted  to  the  courtesy  of  that  best  of 
sporting  magazines. 


E.  s. 


IN  the  North  the  spring  comes  in  a  day.  For 
four  long  months  the  white  paw  of  the  Arctic  bear 
holds  everything  in  icy  clutch.  The  tread  of  it 
flattens  all  minor  growths,  the  iron  claws  of  it  hook 
into  vale  and  ravine,  and  at  their  touch  the  singing 
waters  cease  their  foamy  play  and  chill  and  stiffen 
in  the  coldness  of  a  deathlike  trance.  On  stream 
and  pond  flashes  the  crystal  breastplate  of  the  Frost 
King's  service.  To  them  comes  the  Captain  Bear. 
"  Sleep  "  is  the  monarch's  order,  which  the  captain 
must  enforce ;  so  he  travels  far  and  wide,  treading 
with  creaking  weight  on  snowy  feet.  His  "grand 
rounds"  mean  rest,  the  ceasing  of  all  strife,  the 
temporary  triumph  of  the  forces  of  the  North  upon 
that  bloodless  field  which  must  in  turn  be  won  and 


2  Sporting  Sketches 

lost  forever  while  the  seasons  roll.  The  ear  may 
trace  his  progress  by  the  straggling  salute  of  small- 
arms  from  the  sentinel  trees,  which  fire  and  stiffen 
to  attention ;  by  the  long,  booming  roll  of  big  guns 
from  icy  plains  in  obedience  to  the  order,  "  Salute 
and  solidify."  Upon  the  roof  of  a  trout  pool  the 
bear  halts.  His  round  ear  has  caught  the  whisper- 
ing giggle  of  water  playing  under  the  shelter  of 
some  kindly  root.  The  keen  white  nose  is  lowered 
to  the  cavity ;  the  "  Woof ! "  of  the  blasting  breath 
thrills  the  interior,  and  the  player  ceases. 

Under  the  ice  lie  the  trout,  waiting,  listening  for 
the  tread  of  the  bear  which  they  know  will  surely 
come.  When  the  light  above  fails  and  the  ice- 
batteries  boom,  they  feel  his  presence,  and  turning 
noses  to  the  failing  stream,  they  bide  the  issue.  To 
them  come  mink  and  otter.  Only  these  two  can 
outwit  the  bear.  They  know  certain  unfilled  rivet- 
holes  in  the  icy  armor  and  its  occasional  flaws. 
Through  these  they  slide  to  harry  the  helpless 
quarry. 

But  the  bear  has  orders  to  obey.  His  business 
is  to  see  that  the  Law  of  the  North  is  heeded. 
When  the  rallied  forces  of  the  South  again  rush 
northward,  he  must  slowly  fall  back,  disputing  every 
league  of  field  until  the  last  furious  charge  drives 
him  to  the  berg-piled,  impregnable  stronghold  of 
his  king. 

Over  the  war-worn  field  stream  the  restored  folk, 
singing  and  making  merry.  But  not  far  from  its 
southern  rim  they  halt,  half  afraid,  as  the  signs  of 
recent  conflict  are  yet  too  fresli  for  timid  hearts. 
They  halt  and  peer  this  way  and  that.  "  Is  it  a 


The  Witchery  of  Wa-Wa  3 

trick?  Has  the  White  Bear  really  gone  north?" 
ask  the  little  people. 

"  He  has !  He  has !  "  shouts  the  prideful,  loud- 
voiced  stream.  "  I  have  defeated  him  —  see  me 
hurl  his  broken  bonds  to  crashing  confusion ! " 

"  Cheer-up  —  cheer-up  —  he's-away-in-defeat-in-de- 
feat !  "  chortles  a  fat  robin. 

"  Luck-y-thing  —  luck-y-thing !  "  adds  a  glistening 
grackle,  lightly  clashing  his  cymbals.  "  He-e-e  ? 
Gone  to  sea !  "  flutes  a  redwing.  "  May-bee  —  may- 
bee,"  mutters  a  flycatcher.  "  I-think-think-think-he- 
has-gone-to-sea,"  trills  a  modest  sparrow. 

"  Wrong !  —  all-wrong !  —  Cranks !  —  all-wrong  !  " 
suddenly  shouts  a  mighty  voice  ;  and  behold !  the 
great  gray  goose,  captain  of  all  Northern  raids  — 
the  war-worn  Wa-Wa.  Wizard  of  wastes  of  sea  and 
land,  pioneer  of  prospecting  poleward ;  better  than 
all  he  knows  the  shift  of  season  and  the  northward 
mystery.  His  scoutings  have  extended  to  the  last 
wan  berg,  and  his  trumpet  has  thrilled  the  remotest 
corner  of  the  White  Bear's  den.  Like  most  great 
captains,  he  is  curt,  while  loud  of  speech. 

"  Tarry  awhile,"  he  says ;  "  if  within  two  weeks  I 
come  not  back,  then  for-'ard  all ! "  Through  his 
brazen  trumpet  he  blares  a  thrilling  order,  and 
prompt  and  silent  his  gray-clad  troop  falls  in.  "  En 
avant !  "  The  clang  of  it  stirs  the  blood  of  all,  for 
each  has  heard  the  tongue  in  old  Quebec  and  in 
the  farther  wastes,  and  the  sound  of  it  recalls  the 
joys  of  sweet  new  pasturage,  of  love-making,  and 
happy  summer  homes  in  Daylight  Land. 

"  En  avant !  "  Like  the  head  of  a  mighty  arrow 
shot  poleward,  the  drilled  battalion  hisses  through 


4  Sporting  Sketches 

the  cold,  thin  upper  air.  Wa-Wa  himself  is  leading, 
for  none  other  so  well  understands  how  best  to 
wedge  opposing  airs,  or  when  to  rise  above,  or  to 
dip  below  quarrelling  winds.  He  also  best  knows 
the  route,  for  he  has  been  over  it,  to  and  fro,  each 
spring  and  fall,  ever  since  that  wonderful  first 
autumn  when  his  parents  shepherded  him  and  his 
brothers  and  sisters  from  Arctic  meadows  down  to 
the  lazy,  locked  lagoons  of  the  South. 

"  En  avant !  "  He  loves  to  give  that  order.  For 
many  years  he  has  set  the  pace,  yet  each  succeeding 
season  has  found  him  keener  for  the  northward 
flight.  He  may  dawdle  when  southward  bound, 
but  going  north  is  different.  Then  he  always  fol- 
lows the  old  trail,  stooping  to  this  plain  and  that 
lake,  and  tarrying  only  for  food  and  rest,  or  while 
temporarily  storm-bound,  until  he  reaches  a  certain 
point.  From  this  he  bears  west-by-north  until  the 
forest  dwindles  and  below  him  spread  two  big  lakes 
with  a  little  lake  between.  Into  this  little  lake  runs 
a  big  river  and  out  of  it  runs  another  big  river. 
The  little  lake  is  ringed  with  marshes,  beyond  which, 
upon  one  side,  lie  leagues  of  level  fat-lands,  squared 
with  withered  corn  and  the  green  of  winter  wheat. 
Here  he  always  halts  for  rest  and  refreshments.  He 
may  stay  a  week  or  a  month.  It  matters  not,  for  it 
is  the  loveliest  spot,  save  one,  along  the  route.  The 
other  spot  is  his  birthplace,  away  up  in  a  Manitoba 
muskeg.  Its  real  merit  is  its  privacy,  —  otherwise 
it  is  a  rotten  bad  place,  —  but  then  everybody  knows 
what  a  goose  a  goose  is  apt  to  be  over  goose  affairs ! 

Wa-Wa  has  another  and  a  private  reason  for 
halting  by  the  little  lake.  Years  ago,  during  his 


The  Witchery  of  Wa-Wa  5 

third  visit,  he  was  leading  his  battalion  in  to  feed  at 
gray  dawn,  when  a  long-legged,  lathy-looking,  brown- 
faced  boy  suddenly  rose  from  a  pile  of  corn-fodder 
and  shot  at  him.  Wa-Wa  felt  something  hot  slice 
across  his  breast,  and  for  a  moment  his  strong  flight 
wavered.  Then  he  recovered  himself,  and,  shouting 
defiance  at  his  foe's  single-barrel,  he  led  his  honking 
troop  five  miles  away  to  a  safer  ground.  But  before 
departing  he  took  a  good  look  at  his  enemy,  and 
the  mental  picture  never  faded.  The  long,  lean 
figure,  the  smooth,  swart  face,  the  black  hair,  and 
the  great,  staring  eyes  were  unmistakable,  and 
Wa-Wa  vowed  to  get  even  or,  as  he  put  it, "  hunk  !  " 

For  weeks  the  wound  bothered  him,  but  at  last 
it  healed.  Yet  the  mark  of  it  remained.  When- 
ever Wa-Wa  reared  his  long  body  upright  and  bent 
his  snaky  black  neck  to  arrange  his  lower  plumage, 
he  saw  a  snow-white  streak  amid  his  dressy  gray. 
And  every  time  he  saw  it  his  eyes  would  gleam  and 
he'd  hiss  savagely  and  snap  at  the  grass. 

"  Why  do  you  brood  over  it,  dear  ?  That  miser- 
able boy  is  not  worth  remembering,"  his  wife  would 
say.  In  her  heart  she  was  rather  proud  of  Wa-Wa's 
badge  of  having  been  in  action,  and  she  almost 
wished  that  the  shot  could  have  raked  both  sides 
alike,  for  a  white  line  on  both  sides  would  have 
been  so  dressy  and  so  different  from  anything  worn 
by  any  of  the  other  ganders.  She  used  to  declare 
that  she  loved  to  stand  upon  Wa-Wa's  left,  for  then 
the  white  line  exactly  matched  the  crescent-shaped 
white  cravat  which  she  always  wore.  She  never 
said  so  much  to  Wa-Wa  but  once.  That  time  he 
looked  at  her  with  a  perfectly  horrible  stare  —  then 


6  Sporting  Sketches 

waddled  off,  hissing  until  he  found  a  couple  of  the 
toughest  old  ganders  on  the  grounds. 

When  next  he  led  his  followers  to  the  little  lake, 
he  changed  his  tactics.  All  pitched  in  the  open 
lake,  and  after  they  had  "  washed-up  "  and  become 
eager  for  young  wheat,  Wa-Wa  ordered  them  to 
stop  where  they  were,  while  he  flew  in  to  spy  out 
the  land.  They  were  somewhat  astonished,  but  no 
goose  ever  disobeys;  so  they  waited,  wondering 
what  new  wrinkle  was  bothering  their  wise  old 
leader. 

Wa-Wa  flew  slowly  in,  keeping  one  hundred 
yards  above  the  wet  fields  and  carefully  scanning 
every  yard  of  possible  cover.  The  sun  was  just 
rising,  and  the  first  ray  to  touch  the  ambush  of  the 
last  year  waked  a  flare  of  red  and  a  dazzling  white 
flash.  Wa-Wa  well  knew  that  a  human  face  in  such 
light  shows  very  red,  and  that  a  gun-barrel  flashes 
white.  A  few  seconds  later  he  almost  screamed 
with  rage,  for  there  lay  his  foe  —  eyes,  hair,  long 
figure,  and  all.  Slowly  and  steadily  Wa-Wa  drifted 
in,  till  he  saw  his  foe  spring  to  his  knees.  Then 
Wa-Wa  climbed  straight  up,  as  he  well  knew  how 
to  do.  A  double  report  sounded  dully  from  below, 
but  nothing  happened.  "  He  can  shoot  twice  now," 
thought  Wa-Wa,  as  he  swung  wide.  Then  he 
shouted  as  loudly  as  he  could,  "Hunk!  —  get — 
hunk  —  hunk  /  "  and  bore  away  to  his  friends,  whom 
he  led  to  a  point  some  three  hundred  yards  from 
the  danger  zone.  Telling  a  trusty  young  gander  to 
keep  a  keen  watch  upon  the  skulker,  Wa-Wa  hastily 
fed,  then  relieved  his  sentry.  Slim-necked,  erect, 
and  tall,  he  stood,  his  small,  angry  eyes  never  shift- 


The  Wticbery  of  Wa-Wa  7 

ing  from  his  foe.  Finally,  after  all  had  fed,  he 
gave  the  order  to  rise  as  straight  up  as  possible  and 
to  follow  him.  In  a  grand,  sweeping  curve  he  led 
them  till  they  were  directly  over  the  foe.  Two 
puffs  of  smoke  sprang  upward  and  a  spatter  of 
harmless  stuff  touched  a  few  flight  feathers. 

"  Mark  him  well  —  never  nearer! "  ordered  Wa-Wa, 
and  his  merry  troop  chattered  back  a  jesting  assent. 
Then  Wa-Wa  twisted  his  neck  downward  and  roared, 
"  Hunk  !  — get —  hunk  —  hunk  !  " 

Day  after  day  Wa-Wa  played  his  game  of  coming 
in  alone  and  spying  till  he  had  located  the  peril,  then 
leading  his  troop  as  closely  as  he  dared,  until  the 
smoke  leaped  up.  The  last  morning  of  his  stay  was 
so  warm  that  the  troop  was  lazy  and  wanted  to  fly  low. 
Wa-Wa,  however,  had  a  surprise  for  them  as  a  result 
of  his  scouting.  His  first  glance  over  the  wheat- 
field  where  they  fed  had  detected  a  disturbed  spot. 
Passing  high  over  this,  he  saw  the  upturned  brown 
face  and  fierce  eyes  he  knew  so  well.  Without  a 
sign  of  recognition  he  went  back  to  his  troop,  ex- 
plained the  novel  trap,  and  then  led  the  way  directly 
over  it.  Again  the  twin  puffs  of  smoke  sprang  up, 
and  Wa-Wa,  almost  stopping,  shouted  directly  into 
the  barrel,  "  Hunk  !  —  get  —  hunk  —  hunk  !  " 
That  night  he  led  the  way  northward. 

The  next  spring  came,  and  with  it  Wa-Wa  and 
his  new  troop.  Again  he  warily  scouted,  but  for  a 
time,  search  as  he  might,  he  could  not  uncover  the 
ambush  which  he  felt  was  somewhere  below.  The 
spot  where  the  barrel  had  been  he  distinctly  re- 
called —  the  wheat  was  there  as  usual,  but  the 
barrel  was  not.  The  only  thing  worthy  of  notice 


8  Sporting  Sketches 

was  a  small,  thin  fringe  of  dried  weeds,  which 
marked  a  spot  where  the  wheat  had  failed.  Twice 
Wa-Wa  looked  at  it,  then  suddenly  he  remembered 
that  snow  always  flattens  such  weeds  —  indeed,  all 
other  weeds  lay  flat.  Then  his  marvellous  eye  made 
out  the  dim  outline  of  a  prone  figure,  which  so  closely 
matched  the  scant  cover  that  no  other  gander  would 
ever  have  noticed  it.  For  a  moment  Wa-Wa  was 
almost  frightened.  There  was  something  so  devil- 
ishly crafty  about  the  thing  that  the  bare  idea  of  it 
made  him  shudder  as  he  swung  slowly  around  it  at 
a  safe  distance.  Presently  he  detected  the  slightest 
of  movements  and  then  a  glint  of  red.  Instantly  his 
wrath  blazed  hotly,  for  there  were  the  well-remem- 
bered hated  eyes,  fairly  flaming  with  savage  eager- 
ness. 

Back  to  the  troop  went  Wa-Wa.  Every  member 
had  been  told  what  to  expect  when  they  reached  the 
place  —  indeed,  the  story  of  Wa-Wa's  enemy  had 
been  honked  and  hawked  from  mouth  to  mouth  from 
the  Arctic  to  the  South.  After  explaining  the  situ- 
ation, Wa-Wa  led  the  way  directly  over  the  weeds. 
Once  again  the  expected  smoke  arose,  but  this  time 
the  shower  of  stuff  pattered  smartly  —  so  smartly 
that  one  young  girl  of  a  goose  yelled  "  Ker-ouch !  " 
as  loud  as  she  could.  Bidding  the  rest  go  on, 
Wa-Wa  circled  and  again  passed  over  the  weeds. 
To  his  amazement,  two  more  puffs  of  smoke  belched 
up  and  something  whizzed  mighty  close  to  his  head. 
"  He  can  shoot  more  times  and  farther  now,"  thought 
Wa-Wa,  and  with  the  thought  came  a  decidedly 
uncomfortable  feeling.  The  next  instant  he  was  fu- 
rious, and  he  fairly  screamed  his  farewell,  "  Hunk  ! 


Tbe  Witchery  of  Wa-Wa  9 

—  get  —  hunk  —  hunk!"      Then   he    rejoined   the 
troop    and    led    the   way   to    a   field   fully   a   mile 
distant. 

"  My  dear,"  said  his  wife,  that  evening,  as  they 
rocked  side  by  side  on  the  baby  waves  of  the  little 
lake,  "  I  don't  wish  to  bother  you,  or  to  meddle  in 
any  way,  yet  I  would  like  to  ask  you  a  straight 
question,  What's  wrong  with  you  to-day  ? " 

By  way  of  answer  Wa-Wa  hissed  savagely  and 
drove  his  snaky  head  into  a  curling  ripple.  Then 
he  said,  "  There's  nothing  particular  the  matter  — 
you  wouldn't  understand  if  I  told  you." 

"  But,  my  dear ! "  she  persisted,  "  there  is  some- 
thing the  matter.  You  can't  fool  me  —  I  know  you 
too  well.  You're  crusty  and  worried  —  and  —  and 

—  I  believe-it's-all-about-that-man-in-the-field —  so — 
there ! " 

Wa-Wa  hissed  again  and  his  small  eyes  blazed 
with  fury,  but  beyond  a  low  rattle  in  his  throat  he 
made  no  immediate  answer. 

"  Don't  act  so,"  she  continued ;  "  it's  unlike  you. 
Besides,  I've  really  got  to  speak  to  you  —  it's  been 
on  my  mind  to  do  so  for  some  time ;  but  you've  led 
us  so  long  and  so  well,  dear,  that  it  almost  breaks 
my  heart  to  say  it,  but  I  must !  Look  out  for  that 
man — he'll  do  you  an  injury  yet.  Can't  you  see 
that  he  comes  nearer  and  nearer  to  doing  it  every 
time  ?  Why  !  that  last  time  almost  lamed  Gozzie's 
wing.  It  hurt  the  child  and  frightened  her  half  to 
death  —  and  —  you  know,  dear,  such  a  thing  never 
happened  before.  I  was  thinking  that  p-e-r-h-a-p-s 
we  might  go  to  some  other  place  —  say  the  other 
plains  —  they're  just  as  convenient,  and  it  would 


io  Sporting  Sketches 

be  a  pleasant  change  —  the  children  have  never 
been  there,  you  know,  dear,  and  —  " 

"  For  wheat's  sake,  shut  up  and  don't  meddle ! 
You  can  honk  faster  than  any  goose  I  ever  saw ! " 
roared  Wa-Wa,  and  the  wife  drifted  a  yard  away, 
for  this  was  the  first  time  he  had  showed  real  temper 
to  her. 

He  was  angry,  too,  for  the  old  gander  is  lord  of 
the  lot  and  never  tolerates  the  slightest  interference. 
But  back  of  it  all  lay  an  uneasy  feeling  —  an 
indefinable  dread,  which,  try  as  he  would,  he  could 
not  entirely  banish.  By  dawn,  however,  he  was 
himself  again ;  but  this  time  he  did  lead  to  a  spot 
far  to  one  side  of  the  dangerous  weeds,  and  where 
there  was  no  cover  for  hundreds  of  yards  all  about. 
He  had  not  troubled  himself  to  see  if  the  foe  was  in 
the  hide ;  but  as  all  hands  swung  lazily  lakeward,  he 
looked  back  and  distinctly  saw  the  hated  form  erect 
above  the  weeds.  That  very  afternoon  he  gave  the 

order  for  the  North. 

****** 

The  world  was  white  —  white  as  the  soul  of  a 
child.  Bells  jingled  unceasingly,  rich  robes  swept 
the  snow,  and  big  wood  sleighs,  laden  with  young 
fir  trees,  went  groaning  along  the  streets.  At  the 
window  of  a  big  house,  almost  buried  among  huge 
snow-laden  pines,  stood  a  winsome  wee  lady,  looking 
down  the  straight  path  which  led  to  a  distant  gate. 
The  glow  from-  a  huge  open  fireplace  played  upon 
crimson  curtains  and  brought  the  dainty  figure 
into  sharp  relief.  Almost  childish  in  stature,  it 
required  a  second  glance  to  "detect  the  tiny  cap, 
the  silver  strands  in  the  wavy  black  hair,  and  certain 


The  Witchery  of  Wa-Wa  11 

lines  about  the  mouth  which  hint  where  Time 
marks  up  his  score.  She  evidently  was  expecting 
somebody,  and  she  didn't  have  long  to  wait. 

As  she  watched,  the  space  above  the  gate  was 
suddenly  filled  by  a  hurdling  figure,  which  flew  the 
trifling  barrier  as  though  it  were  a  mere  print  in 
the  snow,  and  sped  with  long  leaps  along  the  path. 
In  her  excitement  she  rapped  the  big  pane  so  hard 
that  it  flew  into  clashing  spears ;  but  that  one  pane 
was  the  only  thing  of  that  name  in  any  way  con- 
nected with  that  particular  reunion. 

"  Time  !  —  breakaway ! "  he  managed  to  gasp  a 
few  moments  later,  and  when  he  had  got  free  he 
added  solemnly,  "  Mater,  if  you  persist  in  hugging 
and  punching  when  clinched,  I'll  give  you  the  heel." 
He  towered  above  her  as  a  greyhound  towers  above 
a  rabbit,  but  the  Rabbit  didn't  appear  to  mind.  In 
fact,  it  showed  a  decided  tendency  to  force  the  fight- 
ing, fouls  and  all,  but  he  straightened  up,  which 
most  effectually  prevented  the  Rabbit's  getting  its 
favorite  hold. 

"  Think  of  it  —  whew !  "  he  presently  said ;  "  this 
Christmas  actually  ends  the  infernal  grind,  and  I 
can  loaf  for  a  year  —  a  whole  year!  if  I  want  to." 
She  said  never  a  word ;  her  face  assumed  a  comical 
attempt  at  sternness,  and  she  held  out  a  wee  hand. 

"  Um-er-yes  —  that's  so  !  "  he  stammered,  as  he 
pretended  to  fumble  in  search  of  the  proof  that  he 
had  been  actually  doing  a  trifle  of  work  between 
athletic  events. 

"  There's  the  condemned  thing,  and  I  hope  you'll 
prize  it,  for  the  cost  has  been  frightful ! "  he  con- 
cluded, with  a  forced  calmness;  for  he  felt  like 


12  Sporting  Sketches 

yelling,  or  trying  a  hitch-kick  at  the  ceiling,  or  any 
old  thing  that  would  let  off  steam.  After  one  swift 
glance,  the  Rabbit  betrayed  a  sudden  fierce  deter- 
mination to  mix  matters  in  a  final  rough-and-tumble, 
but  he  side-stepped  and  repeated  his  warning. 

"  A  prize  indeed ! "  exclaimed  the  Rabbit,  and, 
with  an  arch  look,  she  added:  "  A  prize  to  the  Lady, 
and  a  Sir-prize  to  the  Gentleman  is  but  fair.  Won't 
your  Majesty  enter  the  Royal  Chamber?  " 

"  Same  as  ever,  I  s'pose  ? "  he  queried,  though  well 
he  knew  that  nothing  in  that  room  ever  was  dis- 
arranged, nor  would  it  be  so  long  as  the  Rabbit 
bossed  the  burrow.  "  Come,  let's  go  see ! "  he 
suddenly  exclaimed,  and  as  he  spoke  his  long  arms 
shot  out  in  a  way  that  only  boxing  can  teach.  The 
terrified  Rabbit  had  been  hoping  for,  yet  dread- 
ing, this  very  movement;  for,  womanlike,  at  that 
instant,  she  was  wondering  if  he  had  forgotten. 
Not  a  bit  of  it !  Up  in  the  air  she  rose  until  she 
was  seated  on  his  shoulder ;  then  all  she  could  do 
was  to  bury  her  small  fingers  in  his  thick  hair  and 
hang  on,  quivering  a  bit,  yet  glorying  in  his  supple 
strength.  The  stairs  he  found  easy,  as  of  yore,  and 
the  room  precisely  as  he  had  left  it ;  but  on  the  army 
cot  lay  a  long,  narrow,  boxlike  package. 

The  marks  on  the  package  told  of  a  sea-trip,  and 
he  promptly  got  rid  of  the  wrappings.  "  English 
oak  —  brass-bound,"  he  muttered.  "  Must  have  cost 
—  Why!  —  you — little  dev — I  mean  darling  — 
this  thing  —  c-c-cost  a  hundred  pounds !" 

"  What  of  it  ?  "  philosophically  remarked  the  Rab- 
bit. "This  thing  that  I  got  cost  years  of  hard 
work!" 


The  Witchery  of  Wa-lVa  13 

To  put  it  together  and  swing  it  a  bit  occupied 
only  a  few  moments.  Then  he  knew  that  some- 
body had  told  her  the  weight,  stock,  and  drop,  for 
these  were  exactly  right.  Who  had  done  the  telling 
and  ordering  he  at  once  guessed,  for  few  men  have 
many  such  close  friends.  It  was  indeed  a  beauty, 
and  after  he  had  settled  for  it  in  the  only  coin  that 
would  pass,  he  suddenly  exclaimed,  "  Mater  mine, 
won't  I  do  things  to  old  scar-bel  —  I  mean  Wa-Wa 
—  when  he  comes  north !  " 

"  Who's  Scarbel,  or  Wa-Wa  ?  —  I  thought 
'Wa-Wa'  was  Indian  for  wild  goose  —  Longfellow 
says  so,"  quoth  the  Rabbit. 

For  a  moment  he  was  too  busy  pointing  the  gun 
the  other  way  to  answer,  and  the  dainty  weapon 
shook  in  a  manner  which  suggested  a  vast  amount 
of  nerve-racking  overstudy  on  his  part.  Then  he 
pulled  himself  together  and  answered  with  preter- 
natural gravity :  — 

"  Anser  —  a  goose  —  scarbellerificus  —  buckshoti- 
cus — arcticus — etcetereticus  —  a  goose  of  the  Arctic, 
remarkably  hard  to  get.  Humanum  est  errare"  he 
added  reflectively.  "  Oh  !  "  said  the  Rabbit. 

"  Listen,  Mater,"  he  continued.  "  For  years  I've 
laid  for  a  certain  wise  old  gander  on  the  plains. 
Every  trick  I  know  I  have  played  on  that  old  rascal. 
Once  I  hit  him,  but  he  was  a  bit  too  high — I  was 
a  poor  judge  of  distance  then.  Every  chance  I've 
had  since  I've  tried  for  him  and  failed.  He  knows 
me  and  I  know  him,  but  now  I'm  wiser.  I  have 
learned  how  to  '  call '  from  a  New  Brunswick  chap, 
and  I  can  do  it  well.  I'll  make  and  paint  a  few 
profiles  (decoys,  you  know),  and  when  Wa-Wa  comes, 


14  Sporting  Sketches 

with  the  help  of  your  superb  gift  —  I'll  get  him ! 

Really,  I  must  get  him !  " 

****** 

Two  months  later  the  decoys  were  made  and 
painted.  He  knew  how  to  paint,  and  he  knew  the 
birds  better  than  most  men  know  them.  The  pro- 
files were  life-size,  of  half-inch  stuff,  and  dressed 
down  to  a  knifelike  thinness  along  all  upper  edges. 
Seen  from  directly  above,  they  were  mere  sticks 
upon  the  ground,  but  from  a  distance  they  were 
geese,  and  when  set  up  with  one  pointing  to  each 
quarter,  two  always  were  visible. 

When  the  birds  came  back,  he  was  ready,  and 
one  night  he  said,  "  By-by,  little  one,  I'm  off  after 
Wa-Wa."  Fully  equipped,  with  the  profiles  knap- 
sack-fashion, he  started  on  the  long  tramp.  It  was 
the  softest  of  spring  nights.  The  air  was  shaken 
with  the  peep  of  hylas  and  the  brazen  ripple  of 
frogs.  The  storm  of  it  before  him  calmed  at  his 
passing  and  burst  anew  in  his  rear.  For  mile  after 
mile  he  tramped,  till  the  east  flared  redly  and  the 
breath  of  the  huge  open  came  to  him.  A  pair  of 
blue  wings  hissed  past,  and  from  the  darkness  came 
the  hoarse  queries  of  black  duck,  the  clearer  tone 
of  mallard,  and  the  querulous  chatter  of  pintail. 
Once,  from  far  away,  came  a  faint  honking,  and  at 
the  sound  of  it  he  hastened. 

To  arrange  the  decoys  was  a  simple  task,  but  as 
he  thrust  the  last  support  into  the  soft  wheat-land, 
his  ear  caught  a  mournful  "  Hunk !  — hunk — hunk ! " 

"  I'll  go  a  hundred  yards  below  to  make  sure,"  he 
muttered,  as  he  turned  to  look  at  the  really  excellent 
decoys.  Where  receding  waters  had  left  a  stranded 


Tbe  Witchery  of  Wa-Wa  15 

raft  of  dry  weeds,  he  sat  down  and  waited.  The 
good  old  pipe  kept  him  content,  and  he  listened  to 
the  voices  of  feathered  folk.  Ducks  of  several  sorts 
kept  streaming  over,  heading  for  distant  corn-fields. 
Then  a  rasping  scaipe! — scaipe  !  caused  him  to  nod 
his  head  knowingly.  At  last  a  flash  of  yellow  light 
gleamed  across  the  level,  and  black  shadows  trailed 
westward  from  every  slight  projection.  Presently 
a  distant  honking,  a  clamor  of  many  voices,  be- 
trayed the  fact  that  geese  had  taken  wing. 

He  twisted  an  old  corn-tassel  into  the  cross-strings 
of  his  cap,  tossed  a  few  weeds  over  the  gun-barrels, 
then  laid  down  and  stayed  down.  He  was  dressed 
right  and  he  knew  it,  so  with  chin  upon  hand  he 
lay,  his  eyes,  shadowed  by  the  visor,  fixed  upon  the 
western  sky.  Soon  a  black  thread  drifted  into  view 
and  at  the  first  glimpse  of  it  his  head  sank  lower, 
but  his  heart  beat  higher.  On  and  on  came  the 
thread,  changing  to  a  cord,  then  to  a  cable,  lastly  to 
a  row  of  big  black  beads. 

"  Hunk —  get — hunk — hunk — aw —  hunk!  "  he 
sung  out,  then  snickered  to  himself.  The  brazen 
rasp  of  it  was  startlingly  correct,  and  a  confident 
repetition  of  it  caused  the  flock  to  head  directly  for 
him.  Not  another  sound  did  he  utter,  but  he  lay 
face  down  like  a  dead  man,  although  muscles 
twitched  and  his  heart  thumped  audibly.  At  last, 
from  almost  overhead,  sounded  a  suspicious  croak  and 
the  wiff-wiff  of  mighty  pinions.  In  an  instant  he 
was  upon  his  knees,  and  the  new  gun  fairly  leaped 
to  his  shoulder. 

As  he  rose,  a  long  line  of  geese  wavered,  parted, 
and  the  two  sections  fell  away  to  either  side.  In 


1 6  Sporting  Sketches 

the  space  left,  one  remained  alone  —  a  huge,  thick- 
necked  old  gander,  with  a  conspicuous  white  welt 
across  his  left  breast.  The  other  geese  need  not 
have  worried.  The  trim  tubes  sought  the  white 
cravat  not  forty  yards  away  and  swung  truly  with 
it.  The  gander  lurched,  half  turned,  and  before  he 
could  recover,  the  hail  from  the  second  barrel  struck 
him  full  broadside.  He  reached  the  mud  with  a 
"  whop ! "  which  might  have  been  heard  for  half  a 
mile. 

"Hunk — got — hunk — hunk  .'"chuckled  the  man, 
as  he  laid  down  the  gun  and  started  for  his  prize. 
Naught  cared  he  for  other  geese  —  he  had  got 
hunk! 

Three  hours  later,  the  little  woman  watching  from 
the  doorway  sees  again  the  tall  figure  at  the  gate. 
But  such  a  change !  no  flying  leap  and  springy 
stride  this  time,  for  in  truth  he  scarce  could  have 
hurdled  a  match.  The  drawn,  sweat-lined  face  was 
gray  with  weariness,  yet  the  eyes  still  blazed  with 
the  spark  of  a  hard-won  triumph. 

"  Well,  your  gun's  a  beaut  —  here's  old  scar-bel 
—  I  mean  Wa-Wa !  "  he  grunted,  as  he  suffered  the 
great  gray  form  to  fall  from  his  aching  shoulder  to 
the  piazza. 

"  Ugh  !  "  she  gasped  in  sudden  terror,  for  from 
the  dead  throat  slipped  a  hollow  croak  —  a  wraith 
of  late  clarion  honking. 

He  well  knew  'twas  merely  air  driven  by  the  fall 
through  the  great  windpipe,  yet  he  glanced  curiously 
at  the  fowl,  then  started  slightly.  As  the  gander  lay, 
the  body  and  neck  were  in  shadow,  the  head  in  full 
sunlight.  In  that  light,  the  small,  dead  eye  flamed 


The  Witchery  of  Wa-Wa  17 

like  a  ruby,  and  seemed  to  stare  with  undying  hate 
and  defiance. 

"  That's  funny,"  he  muttered.  "  Guess  old  scar- 
bel —  Nothing!  never  mind,"  he  hastily  added  in 
reply  to  her  questioning  glance.  Then  he  gripped 
the  long  neck  and  strode  away  to  illustrate  that  mis- 
quotation, "  The  goose  hangs  high." 


TIME 


EVERY  style  of  fishing  has  its  earnest  devotees 
and  its  special  claim  to  prominence  in  the  minds  of 
certain  men,  who  are  ever  ready  to  maintain  the 
superiority  of  the  branch  of  the  sport  they  follow. 

The  tarpon  fisher  considers  himself  as  much 
above  the  salmon  fisher  as  the  latter  holds  himself 
above  the  man  who  bothers  with  sea-trout,  or  any- 
thing less  noble  than  salmo  salar,  and  who  finds  his 
wand  of  magic  to  be  a  single-handed  rod.  The 
slayer  of  acrobatic  ouananiche  scorns  speckled  trout 
as  the  true  trout  fisher  pooh-poohs  black  bass; 
while  the  admirers  of  the  big-mouthed,  dusky  gladi- 
ator stoutly  maintain  that  he  is  boldest  and  best  on 
hook  or  on  board.  So  it  runs  downward  through 
the  list. 

The  fly-fisher  scoffs  at  squidding,  trolling,  bait- 
fishing,  spearing,  and  at  anything  and  everything, 
save  fly-fishing,  and  still  old  "  Ike  "  ne'er  preached 
such  a  creed.  There  are  plenty  of  enthusiasts  who 
declare  that  trolling  for  bluefish  in  a  spanking 
breeze,  or  hauling  lusty  sea-bass  by  main  force  from 
foamy  breakers  which  soak  one  from  sole  to  crown, 
are  the  only  styles  of  fishing-  worth  following. 
Others  find  their  keenest  excitement  in  winding  a 

18 


With  and  ^Against  tbe  Grains  19 

shark  ashore  with  winch  and  chain  tackle ;  in  loll- 
ing upon  a  wharf  and  taking  slimy  catfish,  or  other 
ignoble  prey ;  or  even  in  the  lawless  method  of  ex- 
ploding a  dynamite  cartridge  under  water  and  lazily 
picking  up  a  few  of  many  fish  destroyed. 

I  make  no  attempt  to  decide  the  merits  of  these 
many  opposing  claims.  Each  supporter  is  partly 
right  and  partly  wrong.  Fishing  of  any  kind  (bar- 
ring the  dynamite)  is  good  enough  for  me,  and  in 
my  humble  opinion,  whatever  kind  fate  allows  one 
to  enjoy,  is,  or  should  be,  the  best  of  all  —  while  it 
lasts. 

One  method  of  fishing,  almost  invariably  sneered 
at  by  anglers  of  high  degree,  is  spring  spearing ; 
yet  it  frequently  affords  a  deal  of  fun  and  requires 
no  small  measure  of  skill  on  the  part  of  its  success- 
ful votaries. 

I  have  heard  men  who  had  no  aversion  to  spear- 
ing through  the  ice  rail  against  spring  spearing  as 
unworthy  of  any  decent  man's  attention,  yet  they 
never  mentioned  the  one  good  argument,  i.e.  that 
the  sport  encouraged  the  destruction  of  fish  while 
on  their  way  to  the  spawning  beds.  Undoubtedly 
spring  spearing  is  not  beneficial  to  the  fish  speared, 
nor  is  the  killing  of  a  roe-laden  fish  on  her  way  to 
spawn  calculated  to  increase  the  number  of  young 
fry. 

But  the  decriers  of  spearing  overlooked  this  and 
contented  themselves  with  rash  statements  to  the 
effect  that  it  required  no  science  and  was  merely 
"  slopping  about "  anyway.  The  true  causes  of 
their  dislike  were,  that  the  successful  spearer  must 
travel  long  distances  over  wearisome,  muddy  foot- 


20  Sporting  Sketches 

ing ;  must  frequently  wade  in  cold  water  and  think 
naught  of  a  ducking,  and  must  be  able  to  handle 
his  grains,  or  spear,  for  thrust  or  throw,  as  skilfully 
as  a  Zulu  warrior  handles  his  deadly  assegai. 

Stealing  along  a  trout  brook,  or  fishing  from  boat 
or  punt,  doesn't  develop  these  qualities,  and  as  the 
swell  angler  hasn't  got  them,  perforce,  in  his  opin- 
ion, they  are  no  good.  Be  that  as  it  may,  we  of 
the  old  restless,  rough-and-tumble  crowd  learned  to 
handle  grains  before  we  could  cast  a  fly,  and  many 
a  day's  fun  we  enjoyed ;  for  spearing  is  preemi- 
nently a  sport  for  country  boys  and  men. 

When  April's  tears  and  smiles  prevail  against  icy 
fetters  and  let  the  prisoned  waters  run,  comes  the 
brief  spring  season  for  the  grains.  On  Northern 
waters  the  ice  is  generally  rushed  away  to  the  lakes 
by  heavy  floods,  which  spread  far  over  the  lowlands 
bordering  the  streams.  For  a  brief  period  rivers 
are  many  times  their  normal  size;  every  tributary 
creek  and  streamlet  is  a  swollen,  discolored  contri- 
bution to  the  volume  of  the  larger  streams,  and 
every  ditch  is  bankful  or  overflowed.  Once  the  ice 
is  carried  off  and  the  outlets  are  free,  the  great 
waterways  lower  as  rapidly  as  they  rose,  and  all  over- 
flows, and  back-waters  sweep  back  to  the  main  chan- 
nels. Naturally,  the  waters  of  the  creeks,  brooks, 
and  ditches  run  clear  in  a  short  time ;  and  while  a 
river  may  be  several  feet  above  its  average  level  and 
as  opaque  as"  pea  soup,  its  tributaries  may  be  pure 
and  transparent  as  springs. 

Just  after  the  ice  goes  and  the  floods  begin  to 
subside,  the  "  run  "  of  fish  for  "the  spawning  beds 
commences.  Nets  are  put  into  active  service  in  the 


Witb  and  .Against  the  Grains  21 

turbid  rivers,  for  clear  water  is  not  required  for 
them ;  and  while  the  fishermen  haul  their  catches 
of  mullet,  pickerel,  pike,  suckers,  etc.,  would-be 
grainers  keep  close  watch  upon  the  creeks  and 
ditches.  Soon  comes  the  day  when  the  bottoms  of 
creek  and  ditch  may  be  seen  through  swift,  spar- 
kling currents,  and  the  word  is  passed  round  that 
"  spearin's  good." 

Our  favorite  game  was  the  pike  —  the  mottled, 
shovel-nosed  rascal,  called  "  pickerel  "  in  Jersey  and 
in  many  other  places.  I  do  not  claim  that  our  name 
was  correct,  but  it  was  used  to  distinguish  the  fish 
from  its  more  valuable  relative,  the  pickerel  (as  we 
called  it),  or  dore.  The  latter  fish,  the  wall-eyed 
pike,  "  ran  "  in  great  numbers  in  the  rivers  and  was 
taken  by  netting.  I  never  saw  one  in  the  smaller 
streams. 

Our  "pike"  were  persistent  explorers.  They  ran 
up-river  in  schools,  and  whenever  they  discovered 
the  current  of  a  creek  or  ditch  pouring  in,  some  of 
them  would  leave  the  main  stream  and  work  their 
way  up  the  tributary  as  far  as  they  could  swim. 
Hence  it  was  not  unusual  to  find  one  or  more  big 
pike  in  a  flooded  furrow  half  a  field  away  from  a 
main  ditch.  If  the  water  suddenly  lowered,  count- 
less numbers  of  the  fish  were  sure  to  be  prisoned 
in  ponds  and  water-holes,  where,  as  all  retreat  was 
cut  off,  they  sooner  or  later  perished.  They  were 
given  to  pushing  up  the  creeks  to  their  sources  in 
wet  woodlands,  where  they  would  wander  through 
shallow,  amber-tinted  pools  for  rods  on  either  side  of 
the  channels. 

Here  half-submerged  logs  and  fallen  stuff  afforded 


22  Sporting  Sketches 

many  places  of  concealment,  and  sharp  eyes  were 
necessary  to  discover  lurking  fish.  If  one  stirred  in 
the  shallows,  it  was  easily  followed  by  the  ripple  it 
caused  on  the  otherwise  dead  surface.  The  fish,  as 
a  rule,  moved  about  in  pairs,  or  perhaps  three  to- 
gether, after  the  spawning  grounds  were  reached, 
and  we  used  to  wade  in  search  of  them,  examining 
every  possible  shelter  and  keeping  our  eyes  open  for 
any  ripples. 

Most  of  the  town  and  country  blacksmiths  could 
tinker  a  grains  with  three  or  more  barbed  tines,  and 
different  styles  more  or  less  elaborate  were  sold  by 
hardware  dealers.  We  favored  the  three-tined  pat- 
tern, as  less  liable  to  make  two  useless  fragments 
out  of  a  good  fish  too  roughly  struck.  Many  of  the 
young  fellows  prided  themselves  upon  their  skill  in 
throwing  the  grains  a  la  spear,  and  a  few,  myself 
included,  after  breaking  a  tine,  would  file  off  the 
stump  and  the  opposing  tine  and  spear  away  like 
good  'uns  with  the  centre  double-barbed  point. 

The  length  of  handle  for  the  grains  varied 
greatly.  Some  were  fourteen  to  eighteen  feet  long 
and  correspondingly  heavy  and  clumsy.  The  "  old 
heads  "  favored  these  and  did  good  work  with  them, 
too,  but  we  would  have  none  of  them.  We  didn't 
care  a  button  for  the  fish  secured :  we  wanted  sport 
and  to  throw  the  grains  at  every  opportunity,  so  we 
secured  handy  sticks  from  eight  to  twelve  feet  long. 
To  such  short  staffs  a  cord  was  frequently  fixed  to 
aid  recovery  when  thrown  into  a  broad,  rapid 
current ;  but  the  simplest  method  was  to  throw  the 
spear  anyway,  and  then  to  walk"  right  into  the  water 
after  it,  in  case  it  could  not  otherwise  be  recovered. 


With  and  *A gainst  tbe  Grains  23 

More  than  once  I  have  seen  a  grains  thrown 
recklessly  at  a  fish  a  dozen  yards  from  the  bank  of 
the  swollen,  ice-cold  river,  and  as  it  floated  with  the 
current  its  owner  would  have  no  choice  but  to 
plunge  in  and  secure  it  with  as  little  tarrying  and  as 
few  strokes  as  the  law  allowed.  Whether  he  lost 
his  grains  by  funking  a  frigid  swim,  or  regained  it 
by  a  fearless  dash,  we  guyed  him  just  the  same,  and 
his  best  policy  was  to  grapple  somebody  whose  rai- 
ment was  dry  and  strive  to  get  warmed  up  in  the 
struggle  the  dry  one  was  certain  to  make  to  get 
away  from  the  damp  embrace. 

Among  the  devotees  of  pike  spearing  two  meth- 
ods were  popular :  One  was  to  lie  in  wait  where  the 
clear  current  of  an  outflow  joined  the  turbid  main 
stream,  or  upon  a  fallen  tree  or  bridge,  and  spear 
the  fish  with  long-handled  grains  as  they  passed, 
bound  upstream.  This  method  was  popular  with 
the  veterans.  It  was  restful  and  not  necessarily  a 
dirty  or  wet  procedure,  and  the  watcher  had  chances 
at  all  fish  that  sought  that  stream  while  he  was  on 
deck.  It  had  disadvantages,  inasmuch  as  the  run  of 
fish  was  always  uncertain,  and  a  man  might  watch  for 
hours  in  vain.  All  fish  already  past  that  point  were 
lost  as  far  as  that  grains  was  concerned ;  and  while 
there  was  nothing  doing  at  the  outlet,  there  might 
be  rare  fun  farther  above  and  at  the  headwaters. 
At  such  ambushes  the  spearing  could  also  be  done 
at  night  if  a  fire  could  be  built  so  as  to  cast  a 
strong  light  on  the  water,  or  if  the  grainer  had  a 
lantern  equipped  with  a  good  reflector. 

The  second  method  offered  the  most  variety,  and 
appealed  to  the  restless  ones.  This  was  to  follow 


24  Sporting  Sketches 

the  windings  of  the  water  for  miles,  taking  mud  and 
slop  as  they  came,  to  wade  when  needful,  to  get  wet 
and  outrageously  dirty  as  a  matter  of  course,  and  to 
finish  off  with  wading  through  the  headwaters  and 
tramping  home  as  best  one  could.  The  shorter 
grains,  easy  to  throw,  were  most  serviceable  for  this 
work.  By  following  the  stream  thoroughly,  one 
stood  a  chance  to  find  all  fish  that  had  passed  up, 
and  a  miss  with  the  grains  might  be  rectified  later 
on,  for  a  missed  fish  was  certain  to  go  upstream, 
and  might  be  overtaken  and  tried  again  if  it  kept 
to  the  channel. 

The  best  costume  for  this  method  was  the  oldest 
and  most  useless  clothes  one  possessed,  for  the  man 
who  couldn't  afford  to  get  covered  with  mud  was 
safest  at  home.  Many  grainers  wore  long  rubber 
waders,  but  the  value  of  these  was  doubtful.  One 
was  almost  certain  to  fall  over  or  off  of  something 
ere  the  trip  was  done,  and  waders  wet  inside  are  an 
abomination.  Besides,  they  are  unpleasant  things 
to  walk  across  country  in  during  a  return  tramp.  I 
used  to  rig  my  feet  with  old  stout  boots,  with  enough 
cracks  in  them  to  let  water  run  in  or  out  at  will. 
Any  kind  of  ancient  trousers  was  good  enough, 
and  a  pair  of  strong  leggins  amply  protected  the 
shins.  Thus  equipped,  I  would  walk  into  the  first 
water  I  reached,  to  get  wet  and  be  done  with  it. 
After  that  it  was  easy  to  take  what  came,  and  if  one 
slipped  and  fell  into  the  mud,  a  wade  through  deep 
enough  water  fixed  matters  first  rate. 

For  carrying  the  fish,  we  invariably  used  a  long- 
ish  supple  switch,  with  a  short  stub  left  near  the 
lower  end  to  keep  the  first  fish  put  on  from  slipping 


With  and  <A gainst  tbe  Grains  25 

off.  The  switch  with  its  fish  could  instantly  be 
dropped  from  the  left  hand  if  occasion  demanded, 
and  there  was  no  danger  of  a  newly  taken  captive 
making  off,  for  a  fish  removed  from  grains  has  not 
much  music  left  in  it. 

Successful  use  of  the  grains  after  a  fish  was  dis- 
covered was  not  so  easy,  despite  statements  from 
the  opposition  that  no  skill  was  required.  Of  course, 
almost  any  fool  could  strike  a  fish  if  it  lay  quiet  in 
very  shallow  water.  Under  these  conditions  a  rap 
from  a  club  would  be  just  as  efficient  as  a  spear- 
thrust.  But  pike  are  not  given  to  half  stranding 
themselves  for  the  accommodation  of  their  pursuers. 
Fish  seen  lying  motionless  were  generally  at  the 
bottom  of  some  deep  pool,  or  beneath  some  log  or 
other  shelter  likely  to  interfere  with  the  grains. 
When  a  man  could  get  directly  over  a  fish,  the 
spearing  was  easy,  provided  the  man  worked  cau- 
tiously and  correctly  estimated  the  depth  of  water. 
The  surest  way,  in  anything  more  than  a  foot  and  a 
half  of  water,  was  to  silently  dip  the  spear  till  the 
points  were  within  about  six  inches  of  the  quarry's 
shoulders.  A  swift  jab  would  then  be  almost  cer- 
tain. 

But  woe  to  the  man  who  fiddled  too  long,  or  was 
careless  in  his  movements.  A  fish  can  get  away 
from  a  standing  start  with  astounding  speed,  and 
our  pike  is  one  of  the  sprinters  of  his  kind.  Lean, 
long,  and  slimy,  he  is  a  javelin  of  fishdom,  and  his 
lightning  dart  will  baffle  all  but  the  best  trained 
eyes. 

Throwing  the  grains  so  as  to  strike  a  moving  fish 
requires  a  ready  arm  and  quick,  accurate  calcula- 


26  Sporting  Sketches 

tion.  Stationary  or  moving,  a  fish  is  apt  to  appear 
from  four  inches  to  a  foot  nearer  to  the  surface  than 
it  actually  is,  the  amount  of  refraction  varying  with 
the  depth  of  water.  The  grains  must,  therefore,  be 
aimed  ahead  of  and  seemingly  below  a  moving  fish 
to  strike  true.  When  the  game  is  stationary  and 
offers  only  a  side  shot,  careful  allowance  must  be 
made,  or  the  points  will  pass  above  their  object.  I 
have  seen  a  big  pike  run  a  gantlet  of  four  spears, 
guarding  a  stretch  of  water  perhaps  ten  yards  wide 
and  two  feet  deep.  One  weapon  after  another 
struck,  "  chug  —  chug  —  chug  —  chug,"  while  a  fly- 
ing furrow  on  the  surface  told  of  a  swift  shape  speed- 
ing unharmed  below  it.  In  this  case,  though  we 
were  all  experienced,  we  miscalculated  the  depth  of 
water  and  overshot  the  best  fish  seen  that  day. 
*##### 

A  friend,  son  of  one  of  the  "  river  farmers,"  as  we 
styled  the  owners  of  fat  bottom-lands,  had  asked  me 
to  join  him  for  a  day's  slopping  round.  I  was  to 
reach  the  farmhouse  about  evening,  and  we  were  to 
turn  out  at  sunrise  next  morning,  and  try  a  long 
creek  which  drained  an  extensive  tract  of  woodland. 
The  mouth  of  this  creek  was  near  my  friend's  home, 
so  I  concluded  to  travel  along  the  river  bank  till  I 
reached  the  smaller  stream,  and  to  have  a  look  at 
the  water  for  myself.  As  the  river  was  very  high, 
and  the  going  muddy,  I  wore  long  rubber  waders, 
for  I  could  not  change  clothes  until  I  returned. 

When  I  started  on  my  four-mile  tramp  the  after- 
noon was  warm  and  bright,  and  I  poked  along,  not 
caring  to  reach  the  house  before  supper-time.  Wad- 
ing through  shallow  overflows  kept  my  rubbers  cool 


With  and  Against  the  Grains  27 

and  comfortable  until  I  reached  the  mouth  of  the 
creek.  Here  I  found  the  outrunning  water  per- 
fectly clear,  the  clean  current  extending  for  a  couple 
of  yards  into  the  roily  river.  It  was  a  capital  place 
to  watch  for  fish,  and  as  I  had  time  to  spare  I  con- 
cluded to  bide  a  wee. 

Out  of  spearing  distance  in  the  river,  fish  were 
running  famously.  The  quick  strikes  of  the  pike 
rippled  the  gliding  surface  continuously,  and  now 
and  then  the  reddish  fin  or  caudal  of  a  mullet 
showed  where  some  big  fellow  was  struggling 
against  the  powerful,  discolored  current.  In  time 
a  red  tail  waggled  for  a  second  within  reach,  and  I 
drove  the  grains  into  the  water  a  couple  of  feet 
ahead  of  where  the  tail  had  disappeared.  A  grind- 
ing jar  told  that  the  points  had  struck  a  fish  well 
forward,  and  as  the  shaft  whirled  round  with  the 
flood,  I  pulled  it  back  and  landed  a  heavy  mullet. 

The  writhing  eddy  just  below  the  confluence  of 
the  two  currents  seemed  to  entice  many  wearied 
fish,  and  every  few  moments  I'd  catch  a  glimpse  of 
a  fin  or  tail.  But  the  stream  was  far  too  muddy 
for  sure  work,  and  many  a  "  water  jab "  resulted. 
Once  in  about  five  thrusts  the  points  would  touch 
a  fish,  and  at  longer  intervals  victims  were  secured. 
It  was  quick  and  interesting  work,  and  supper-time 
rolled  round  before  I  had  given  a  thought  to  the 
venomous  Old  Party  with  the  scythe.  I  had  killed 
four  good  fish  and  a  couple  of  worthless  suckers 
when  I  realized  that  farmers'  wives  invariably  make 
fussy  preparations  for  "town  fellers,"  and  that  de- 
cency demanded  that  I  should  make  an  effort  to  be 
on  time. 


28  Sporting  Sketches 

So  I  cut  a  switch,  strung  my  mullet,  and  picked 
up  the  spear  preparatory  to  starting.  A  glance  into 
the  water  of  the  creek  caused  me  to  drop  the  fish 
and  stare  in  astonishment.  About  a  foot  below  the 
surface,  and  not  more  than  a  dozen  feet  away,  a 
long,  gleaming  shape  was  plainly  visible.  Wicked- 
looking  yellow  eyes  glared  from  one  end  of  it,  and 
a  broad  tail  sculled  softly  at  the  other.  At  first  I 
thought  it  was  surely  a  muskallonge,  but  the  season 
was  too  early.  A  second  scrutiny  proved  it  to  be 
a  pike  —  and  such  a  pike!  It  had  seen  me  before 
I  noticed  it,  and  it  was  ready  for  one  of  its  electric 
rushes  at  an  instant's  warning.  I  cautiously  edged 
round  into  a  good  position,  thinking  meantime  of 
the  lusty  "  jacks  "  of  ancient  moat  and  fen,  for  this 
was  the  largest  pike  I  had  seen. 

"  Blame  you,  you  most  scared  me !  You  must 
weigh  over  twenty  pounds,"  was  my  thought  as  I 
got  the  spear  into  position.  Then  I  hesitated. 
Should  I  essay  a  sneaking  side  thrust  or  stand 
up  like  a  man  and  hurl  the  grains  ?  The  first  was 
tempting  —  but  'twas  a  noble  fish  worthy  of  knightly 
feat,  and,  besides,  I  was  not  at  all  sure  that  it  would 
tolerate  a  nearer  approach.  The  doubt  decided  me, 
and,  little  by  little,  I  raised  the  spear  and  got  into 
position.  Once  I  sighted,  twice  I  sighted ;  then 
involuntarily  exclaimed,  "  Now ! "  and  drove  the 
steel  truly  at  a  point  below  the  glaring  eyes.  As 
the  shaft  left  my  hand  a  laughing  voice  echoed, 
"  Now ! "  then  changed  to  a  yell  of  astonishment, 
which  wound  up  with,  — "  Great  Caesar's  ghost ! 
Wha-a-t  a  fish  !  " 

I  knew  the  voice  and  guessed  that  Jack  had  am- 


With  and  Against  tbe  Grains  29 

bushed  me,  expecting  to  find  me  at  the  creek  when 
I  failed  to  appear  at  supper-time.  All  that  I  saw 
for  the  moment  was  a  great,  foamy  swirl  of  water,  a 
struggling,  burnished  body,  seemingly  as  large  as 
my  leg,  a  glint  of  the  grains  near  a  broad,  flapping 
tail ;  then  the  staff  floated  idly  toward  me. 

"  He's  loose  !  He's  upstream !  Run  him,  man ! " 
shouted  Jack,  as  I  grasped  the  grains  and  sped 
away.  A  wake  in  the  water  now  and  then  hinted 
where  the  fish  was,  and  I  belted  along  as  fast  as  the 
waders  and  treacherous  footing  would  allow.  At 
the  end  of  a  hundred-yard  burst  I  had  enough,  and 
at  the  same  time  saw  that  further  chase  was  useless, 
for  the  creek  suddenly  broadened  into  a  deep  pond. 
As  I  pulled  up  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  fish  near 
the  bank,  and  within  reasonable  throwing  distance. 
It  was  moving  slowly,  and  a  white  scar  near  the  tail 
showed  where  a  tine  of  the  grains  had  failed  to  hold. 
With  a  last  desperate  effort  I  hurled  the  shaft  again. 
It  left  my  hand  all  right,  but  an  unnoticed  twig 
caused  it  to  swerve,  and  the  steel  struck  the  water  a 
yard  from  its  mark.  The  startled  fish  disappeared 
in  the  pond  like  an  arrow  of  light,  while  I  thought 
hard  things  of  luck  in  general  and  this  kind  of 
luck  in  particular. 

Naturally  the  adventure  made  us  keen,  and  as 
soon  as  I  could  escape  from  the  overplus  of  pies, 
etc.,  we  went  back  to  the  creek.  A  big  fire  of  drift- 
wood was  soon  started,  its  red  glare  showing  far 
upon  the  river.  With  grains  in  hand,  we  watched 
many  a  passing  fish,  and  once  in  a  while  we  struck 
mullet  and  suckers.  Time  slipped  away ;  duck  clove 
the  darkness  overhead  with  hissing  wings ;  owls 


30  Sporting  Sketches 

"  How-do-ed  ? "  to  one  another  across  the  river,  and 
finally  a  wailing  "bla-a-a-at"  from  a  big  tin  horn 
warned  us  that  Jack's  father  considered  it  time  to 
lock  up  his  house  for  the  night. 

If  there  is  one  thing  I  dislike  more  than  getting 
into  bed,  it  surely  is  getting  out  again,  and  Jack  had 
to  haul  me  bodily  to  the  floor  in  a  queer  half-light, 
which  he  termed  morning.  He  had  chores  to  do 
before  we  were  free  to  go,  so,  after  plunging  my 
head  into  cold  water,  I  bore  a  hand  and  helped  him 
out.  The  rapidity  of  the  feeding  process  must  have 
delighted  and  amazed  the  stock  —  but  we  wanted  to 
go  spearing !  Jack  moused  round  and  fixed  up  two 
goodly  bowls  of  bread  and  milk,  and  as  the  sun 
climbed  above  the  woods  we  were  ready  to  depart. 
At  this  juncture  Jack  thought  of  an  evil  thing,  and 
exclaimed:  "Say,  how'd  some  hard  cider  catch  you 
'fore  startin'  ?  Ole  man's  got  a  barrel  of  it,  and  it's 
bully ! " 

I  rather  fancied  the  scheme,  and  we  sneaked  into 
the  cellar  and  put  at  least  a  quart  apiece  on  top  of 
our  bread  and  milk.  It  was  mild,  palatable  stuff, 
and  it  slid  so  meekly  out  of  the  old  tin  dipper  that 
I  trusted  it  implicitly.  Jack  spied  an  empty  quart 
bottle,  and,  with  many  low  chucklings,  we  cribbed 
the  full  of  it  and  made  off.  We  went  first  to  the 
mouth  of  the  creek,  and  found  the  water  in  prime 
condition.  Jack,  however,  was  eager  to  get  up- 
stream, to  look  for  our  lost  big  fish,  and  he  urged 
me  to  lose  no  time,  as  other  spearsmen  might  be  up 
from  town  and  at  the  headwaters  before  us.  When 
we  reached  the  place  where  the  fish  had  disappeared 
I  halted,  while  Jack  hurried  ahead  to  where  the 


With  and,  ^Against  tbe  Grains  31 

creek  flowed  in.  Considering  that  the  fish  was 
slightly  wounded,  it  might  still  be  in  the  pond,  so 
the  best  plan  was  for  me  to  wade  in,  and  try  and 
drive  it  upstream  to  the  ambushed  spear. 

I  beat  the  pond  thoroughly,  striking  the  water 
with  the  spear-shaft  as  I  went,  but  no  big  fish  passed 
Jack.  Three  small  pike  gave  him  a  chance,  which 
yielded  one  victim;  but  when  I  reached  him,  he 
agreed  that  the  big  one  must  have  gone  farther  up 
the  creek. 

Then  followed  a  long,  patient  hunt.  We  moved 
abreast,  one  on  either  side  of  the  water,  searching 
every  possible  cover,  and  jabbing  our  grains  into 
every  pool  too  deep  and  dark  for  eye  to  penetrate, 
but  for  a  long  time  found  no  trace  of  the  big  fish 
with  the  white  scar  near  his  tail.  Other  fish  of  fair 
size  we  occasionally  routed  out,  and  several  were 
secured  and  placed  on  our  respective  switches. 

One  capture  will  show  what  quick  work  may  be 
done  with  the  grains.  At  a  point  where  the  creek 
was  less  than  four  yards  broad  and  perhaps  two  feet 
deep,  we  noticed  a  decided  wake  on  the  surface. 
Jack  ran  ahead  and  shouted :  "  Look  out !  I've  turned 
three  good  ones."  Then  he  made  a  few  steps  for- 
ward and  speared  a  fine  fish.  A  mimic  wave  rushed 
down  on  me,  and  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  two  pike, 
one  a  yard  or  more  in  the  lead.  This  was  the  smaller 
fish,  but  I  had  to  strike  it,  or  suffer  it  to  reach  a  dif- 
ficult piece  of  water.  As  it  dashed  abreast  of  me  I 
struck  it  near  the  head,  and  at  once  heaved  on  the 
shaft  a  la  pitchfork,  following  with  a  sharp,  twisting, 
backward  jerk  as  the  steel  was  above  my  head. 

The  fish  tore  free  of  the  tines,  and  went  sailing 


32  Sporting  Sketches 

yards  away  into  the  field.  The  larger  fish  had  paused 
for  a  second  or  two  as  its  leader  was  struck,  and 
gave  me  time  to  whirl  the  grains  into  position  for  a 
throw.  The  fish  had  passed,  but  a  swift  shot  after 
it  landed  the  tines  in  its  back,  and  we  got  all  three. 

This  was  such  a  lucky  performance  that  Jack 
produced  his  bottle  of  hard  cider,  and  we  made 
"  two  bites  "  of  it,  to  save  lugging  the  flask  farther. 
The  sun  had  by  this  time  gained  full  power,  the 
surface  of  the  water  seemed  to  be  brighter  and  more 
dazzling  than  usual,  and  some  way  or  other  we 
seemed  to  laugh  more  over  the  capture  of  our  three 
prizes  than  was  really  necessary.  I  know,  of  course, 
that  I  was  laughing  mainly  at  Jack,  and  my  mirth 
did  not  decrease  when  he  began  to  talk  about  the 
big  fish  and  what  he'd  do  if  some  son-of-a-gun  from 
town  happened  to  get  it  before  we  could  find  it. 

In  time  we  reached  a  small  log  bridge  spanning 
the  stream,  and  here  we  paused  to  bask  in  the  pleas- 
ant sunshine  and  to  get  pipes  going  once  more. 
Somehow  I  felt  strangely  lazy  and  drowsy,  and  Jack, 
while  he  did  an  enormous  amount  of  talking,  failed 
to  interest  me  overmuch,  or  to  mouth  his  words  in 
his  usual  crisp  style.  We  sat  till  I  caught  myself 
actually  nodding;  then  we  laughed  some  more  and 
got  upon  our  feet.  Before  leaving  the  bridge  I  pro- 
ceeded to  examine  the  water  below  it,  and  made  an 
important  discovery.  Under  a  large  log  lay  a  long 
greenish  form  with  fins  that  wavered  slowly,  and  a 
tail  that  sculled  with  just  sufficient  power  to  keep 
its  owner  in  his  hiding-place  despite  the  current. 
Near  the  big  tail  a  white  scar  showed  distinctly,  and 
I  knew  that  at  last  we  had  found  our  lost  friend  of 


Witb  and  Jl gainst  the  Grains  33 

the  evening  before,  though  fully  two  miles  from 
where  I  had  missed  him.  He  must  have  picked  up 
a  comrade  while  travelling,  for  on  looking  again  I 
plainly  saw  two  huge  pike  and,  mirabile  dictu,  each 
had  a  scar  near  its  tail !  I  gravely  asked  Jack  to 
gaze  upon  this  mystery  of  the  waters.  He  took  one 
look,  then  exclaimed:  "  Sufferin'  cats!  Ram  it  — 
hie !  —  to  —  the  —  hull  —  three  of  —  'em  !  " 

I  sighted  carefully  at  the  biggest,  yet  hoped  to 
spear  both,  and  drove  the  grains  with  unnecessary 
power.  My  arm  felt  an  unexpected  jar,  but  I 
whooped  out:  "Hurra!  I've  got  one  anyhow!" 

"  Got  nuthin' !  There  they  all  go  —  You  speared 
the  log,  you  —  hie — fool  you  —  yer  full!"  politely 
commented  Jack.  After  I  had  riddled  for  some 
minutes  trying  to  get  the  grains  free  of  the  log,  and 
had  calmly  stepped  into  water  that  came  inches 
above  the  tops  of  my  rubbers,  I  realized  that  Jack 
had  evidently  cultivated  the  power  of  observation. 
Hard  cider  was  peculiar  stuff  surely,  so  I  wet  my 
head  and  splashed  water  into  my  face,  then  stumbled 
ashore.  The  ducking  improved  matters  a  bit,  but 
I  screamed  with  laughter  when  Jack  blurted  out: 
"  Well,  hie  —  you're  —  nice  —  feller  —  to  —  go  — 
spearin' !  Let's  take  after'm  —  they  all  run  up- 
stream." 

"  There  was  only  one  fish,  Jack,"  I  ventured. 

"  Oh,  shut  up  ! "  he  said.  "  Bad  enough  to  miss 
the  hull  three  without  trying  to  lie  out  of  it.  I  — 
hie  —  hate  a  feller'll  squeal  when  he  makes  —  a  — 
fool  — of  — hisself!" 

We  soon  found  the  fish  again.  It  must  have 
been  severely  hurt,  for  by  some  half-submerged 


34  Sporting  Sketches 

scrub  I  saw  the  familiar  shape  and  the  white  scar. 
This  time  —  thanks  to  the  cold-water  treatment  — 
the  fish  was  alone.  I  warned  Jack,  and  then  stole 
upon  the  quarry.  A  few  yards  above  where  it  lay 
was  a  very  shallow  little  rapid,  the  water  sliding,  six 
inches  deep,  over  a  sort  of  slope  of  hard  blue  clay. 
There  Jack  stationed  himself  in  a  rickety  sort  of 
way  to  head  off  the  fish  in  case  I  missed  it.  As 
he  left  me  he  said,  "  Ef  you  mish  um  again  —  an' 
I  bet  you  do  — you  watch  me  nail  um  ef  he  tries  to 
monkey  with  me  !  " 

To  be  candid,  I  did  miss  him.  How  or  why  the 
cider  can  explain.  I  had  a  fair,  open  chance ;  the 
fish  never  stirred  till  after  the  grains  plunged  into 
the  water  at  least  six  inches  to  one  side,  but  it  was 
a  palpable  "  lost  bird."  The  big  pike  was  slow  in 
its  movements,  and  Jack  had  plenty  of  warning 
before  the  shovel-nose  showed  in  the  rapid  right  at 
his  feet.  He  jabbed  once,  twice,  thrice,  with  short, 
swift  movements,  like  a  yellow  hen  pecking  corn, 
but  he  missed.  I  could  have  run  to  the  scene  in 
time  to  have  tried  a  shot  myself,  but  the  picture  was 
altogether  too  funny  for  me  to  tamper  with.  As  he 
missed  the  third  try,  he  ran  forward  into  the  water, 
stumbled,  and  landed  on  his  feet  and  hands.  He 
got  pretty  wet,  but  was  up  in  an  instant  and,  as  the 
fish  showed  at  the  very  head  of  the  little  rapid,  he 
swung  his  spear  aloft,  and  brought  it  down  with  a 
smashing  two-handed  blow,  as  an  old  dame  handles 
an  axe.  The  shaft  snapped,  but  the  grains  hap- 
pened to  land  flat  on  the  pike  and  left  it  dead.  The 
next  swirl  of  water  brought  the -long,  mottled  body 
to  Jack's  hand  and  he  stumbled  to  terra  firma  with 


Witb  and  Against  the  Grains  35 

his  prize.  As  we  felt  averse  to  exertion,  we  lay 
down  to  smoke. 

Trouble  of  an  unexpected  nature  was  brewing. 
We  had  barely  got  our  pipes  going  when  we  heard 
voices  and  soon  saw  three  hard-looking  citizens 
approaching.  They  had  grains,  but  only  one  small 
fish,  and  were  using  pretty  rough  language.  They 
knew  me  well  enough,  and  one  of  them  presently 
hailed  me  and  asked,  "  What  luck  ?  "  Jack  grunted 
out,  "  Don't  bother  with  that  truck  —  they're  no 
good."  It  seemed  that  the  men  had  raided  his 
father's  orchard  and  melon  patch  so  many  times 
that  they  had  got  themselves  disliked.  However, 
I  held  up  first,  my  lot,  then  Jack's,  then  the  great 
fish  which  had  not  been  put  on  the  switch.  The 
two  strings  caused  some  profane  comment;  but  the 
size  of  the  big  fish  raised  a  whoop  of  surprise,  and 
through  the  creek  they  came  for  a  closer  inspection. 
When  they  reached  us,  I  saw  they'd  been  drinking 
more  or  less,  so  just  to  turn  matters  into  a  safe 
channel,  I  gave  the  two  fishless  fellows  a  fair-sized 
pike  each.  This  was  a  veritable  boomerang.  In- 
stantly two  flasks  were  produced,  and  each  man 
swore  that  I  was  a  good  fellow  and  must  drink. 

Now,  I  had  not  yet  entirely  shaken  off  the  hard 
cider,  and  I  knew  better  than  to  put  straight  rye 
on  top  of  it;  but  it  was  very  difficult  to  beg  off. 
I  jollied  the  trio  as  best  I  could,  and  might  have 
smoothed  things  famously  if  Jack  had  kept  his 
mouth  shut.  But  suddenly,  to  my  horror,  he  sprang 
to  his  feet,  shook  his  fist  at  one  man  and  roared : 
"  You're  a  blank  thief !  I  know  you.  Now  you 
get  right  out  of  here  !  " 


36  Sporting  Sketches 

This  meant  "  scrap  "  for  sure,  and  I  didn't  like 
the  prospect  a  bit.  Three  to  two,  and  every  man 
armed  with  grains,  was  nasty.  The  three  could 
certainly  do  us  if  they  wanted  to,  as  there  was  little 
to  choose  between  any  two  of  the  party,  so  far  as  I 
knew.  The  man  spoken  to  merely  stepped  off  a 
few  paces  to  one  side,  drove  his  spear  into  the 
ground,  shed  his  coat,  and  came  back  saying,  "Jest 
as  soon  tackle  you  as  eat."  If  it  hadn't  been  for 
Jack's  hard  cider,  I  would  not  have  worried  much 
about  him,  for  he  was  a  powerful,  though  clumsy, 
fellow,  trained  by  plenty  of  hard  work.  The  chance 
of  the  others  mixing  in  was  promptly  settled  by  one 
of  them  saying  to  me,  "  You  keep  back  on  your  side, 
and  we'll  do  the  same."  I  presume  that  I  should 
have  done  my  best  to  check  hostilities,  but,  honestly, 
I  didn't  feel  called  upon  to  start  a  Sunday-school 
just  then.  So  long  as  they  scrapped  fair  and  wanted 
to,  and  I  didn't  have  to  get  punched  or  speared,  I 
was  quite  willing  to  look  on. 

There  was  no  pretence  at  science.  They  slugged 
each  other,  bang-bang,  half  a  dozen  times,  missed 
with  many  wild  swings,  and  then  Jack  went  down 
in  a  very  wet  spot.  As  he  picked  himself  up  I 
advised  him,  "  Best  clinch  him,  Johnnie,"  and  was 
promptly  told  to  "  shut  my  trap "  by  the  other 
spectators.  Jack  heard,  however,  and  soon  they 
were  all  snarled  together,  kicking  up  ground  and 
milling  away  at  a  great  rate.  In  the  roll  around 
they  got  mixed  up  with  the  fish  and  we  shifted  the 
grains  well  out  of  reach,  for  both  were  now  pretty 
well  scraped  and  punched  and  screaming  mad. 

It  was  an  even  thing  until  they  broke  apart  on 


IV lib  and  *A gainst  tbe  Grains  37 

the  ground.  Just  then  Jack  ran  his  nose  against  a 
hot  one  aimed  at  random,  and  as  he  sat  back  his 
hand  chanced  to  light  on  the  big  pike's  head.  With 
a  yowl  like  a  mad  cat  he  leaped  up  and  whirled  the 
long  body  of  the  fish  hissing  through  the  air.  The 
tail  landed  with  a  swat,  like  two  boards  struck  to- 
gether, fair  on  his  foe's  mouth,  only  to  rise  and 
whistle  again  and  reach  the  jaw  with  a  fearful  crack. 
This  blow  broke  the  fish  into  fragments,  and  Jack, 
with  a  quarter  section  of  head  and  battered  flesh 
clutched  tight  in  his  right  "  maulie,"  piled  into  his 
fallen  enemy  and  belabored  himself  lustily.  From 
below  the  Catling  of  fishmeat  presently  came  the 
required  squeal,  and  the  fight  was  done. 

Jack  left  fish  and  grains  and  marched  straight 
across  country,  madder  than  a  wet  hen.  As  the 
defeated  one  washed  at  the  creek  the  three  sinful 
spectators  rolled  on  the  ground  and  howled  with 
boundless  joy,  and  I  had  finally  to  grab  the  fish  and 
grains  and  flee  as  best  I  could  for  laughter  from 
insistent  proffers  of  flasks.  When  three  fields  from 
the  battleground  I  could  hear  the  two  yelling  with 
delight,  and  I'll  lay  that  the  fighter  appreciated  the 
force  of  "  save  me  from  my  friends  "  before  they  got 
through  with  him. 


TTISIE 

TTIBJIS 


WHY  a  wizard?  Yankee-fashion  I  might  retort 
with,  Why  not  ?  When  a  bit  of  brown  bird  life 
only  about  eleven  inches  long  can  cause  a  six-foot 
man  to  do  all  sorts  of  crazy  stunts,  I  should  say  the 
wee  fellow  at  least  possessed  peculiar  powers.  That 
the  snipe  can  make  a  lazy,  heavy  sleeper  rise  at 
gray  dawn  and  go  toiling  across  weary  leagues  of 
bog,  morass,  and  muddy  mess  for  perhaps  eight  or 
ten  hours  at  a  stretch  is  a  well-known  fact.  That 
he  can  make  a  temperate  man  drink,  a  truthful  man 
lie,  an  accurate  man  miss,  and  a  good  man  curse,  he 
has  repeatedly  proved,  while  at  the  same  time  with 
a  mere  wave  of  a  wing  he  can  cause  a  sinking  heart 
to  leap  with  joyous  pride  and  a  weary  eye  to  flash 
with  sudden  fire.  These  things,  and  a  few  others 
which  need  not  be  dwelt  upon,  backed  by  a  flight 
of  the  now-you-see-it-now-you-don't — the-quickness- 

38 


The  Wizard  of  the  Wetlands  39 

of-the-wing-deceives-the-eye  order,  appear  to  warrant 
the  title  herewith  bestowed. 

And  with  all  his  eccentricities  he  is  a  good  little 
wizard  and  one  of  the  best  loved  of  all  our  lesser 
game.  Once  a  snipe  shooter  always  a  snipe  shooter 
might  be  truly  said,  for  it  is  questionable  if  even  the 
Bob  White  has  more  valiant  champions  than  stand 
ready  to  defend  the  honor  of  the  long-billed,  bent- 
winged  master  of  the  mud. 

The  snipe,  properly  Wilson's  snipe,  Gallinago 
delicata,  but  commonly  known  as  English  snipe 
and  wrongfully  called  half-a-dozen  other  names,  is  a 
widely  distributed  species.  It  visits  every  state  at 
some  season;  its  northward  migration  extends 
within  the  Arctic  Circle,  while  it  is  known  to  go 
southward  to  northern  South  America  and  the 
West  Indies.  Comparatively  few  of  the  birds  which 
move  northward  from  February  until  May  breed 
south  of  the  international  line.  It  is  quite  true 
there  are  breeding  grounds  at  various  points  of  the 
Northern  states,  but  the  great  breeding  range 
extends  from  latitude  42°  north  to  some  undeter- 
mined point  much  nearer  the  Pole  than  most 
sportsmen  will  venture. 

Some  time  in  September  the  first  south-bound 
birds  pass  below  the  Canadian  grounds,  and  soon 
most  of  the  suitable  marshy  bits  of  East  and  West 
have  their  share  of  long-billed  prizes.  Then  begins 
an  astonishing  attack,  which  extends  from  ocean  to 
ocean  and  gradually  sweeps  southward  from  Canada 
to  California.  Probably  tons  of  lead,  half  of  which 
is  wasted,  are  fired  at  the  artful  dodger. 

The  sexes  are  alike,  the  description  being  as  fol- 


40  Sporting  Sketches 

lows :  Top  of  head,  black,  with  three  buff  stripes ; 
neck,  buff,  lined  and  spotted  with  black ;  back,  black, 
feathers  barred  and  margined  with  rufous  and  buff, 
the  latter  giving  a  striped  effect ;  rump  and  upper 
tail  coverts,  rufous,  barred  with  black ;  wings,  sooty 
black,  feathers  barred  with  rufous  and  margined 
with  white ;  primaries,  blackish,  web  of  first  white 
nearly  its  length,  edged  with  white  at  tip;  tail, 
usually  of  sixteen  feathers,  the  three  outer  whitish 
with  narrow  black  bars,  the  others  black  with  rufous 
bar  and  tipped  with  pale  buff ;  chin  and  upper  part 
of  throat,  pale  buff,  lower  throat  and  breast,  buff, 
spotted  with  sooty  brown  ;  flanks,  white,  barred  with 
black ;  abdomen,  white ;  under  tail  coverts,  buff, 
barred  with  sooty  black ;  bill,  legs,  and  feet,  green- 
ish. Length,  loj  to  nj  inches;  wing,  about  5 
inches ;  tail,  2 J-  inches ;  bill,  2  J  to  3  inches. 

Many  sportsmen  of  the  gray-headed  brigade  still 
insist  that,  like  the  woodcock,  the  snipe  lives  by 
what  they  term  "  suction."  Better-informed  people, 
of  course,  know  that  both  birds  eat  worms,  and  an 
astonishing  number  of  them,  and  that  the  worms 
are  secured  mainly  by  probing  (boring)  for  them 
with  the  peculiarly  sensitive  bill,  the  upper  mandible 
having  a  very  flexible  tip  by  which  the  worm  is  felt, 
seized,  and  drawn  from  the  earth.  By  this,  however, 
is  not  meant  that  snipe  and  cock  invariably  bore  for 
their  food.  Both  will  take  worms  crawling  upon 
the  surface,  and  both  frequently  feed  in  thickets  and 
on  almost  dry  ground,  where  they  secure  the  prey 
by  turning  over  fallen  leaves. 

When  migrating  the  snipe  travels  by  night,  and 
while  some  excellent  authorities  have  claimed  that 


The  Wizard  of  the  Wetlands  41 

a  moonlit  journey  is  necessary,  or  at  least  preferred, 
my  experience  has  taught  otherwise.  More  times 
than  can  now  be  recalled  I  have  catnapped  through 
the  black  monotony  of  a  steamy  spring  night  so  as 
to  be  on  precisely  the  proper  spot  when  the  first 
flight  of  geese  came  in  to  feed  at  gray  dawn.  And 
at  intervals  throughout  such  nights  I  have  heard 
the  wings  and  voices  of  myriad  snipe  hissing  and 
rasping  across  the  black  mystery  as  the  first  comers 
of  the  year  sped  to  the  fat  muck  of  thousands  of 
acres  of  wetlands.  Moreover,  I  have  toiled  till  dusk 
over  fenceless  fields  of  black  tenacity  and  seen  never 
a  bird,  nor  a  boring,  nor  a  chalking,  nor  anything 
that  is  his ;  have  turned  in  dead  beat  at  some  farm- 
house, been  literally  hauled  out,  against  the  grain 
but  in  accordance  with  positive  instructions,  before 
dawn,  and  have  later  found  the  birdless  ground  of 
the  previous  evening  to  be  swarming  with  silent, 
skulking  snipe,  which  if  not  weary  from  a  long  flight 
certainly  acted  like  resting  new  arrivals. 

I  have  heard  snipe  moving  by  moonlight,  and  that 
many  times ;  but  the  night  of  nights  to  bring  the 
northward-bound  birds  is  dark  and  damp  with  a 
puff  of  warm  breeze  from  the  south  and  a  dash  of 
warm  rain.  Upon  such  a  night  I  have  known  the 
snipe  pour  in  so  that  wings  or  voices  were  audible 
nearly  every  moment.  Pretty  good  snipe  grounds  ? 
Indeed  they  were.  When  "Frank  Forester"  first 
tramped  them,  he  could,  with  a  muzzleloader,  bag 
twenty,  thirty,  and  forty  brace  in  a  day;  and  not  many 
seasons  ago  the  keen  men  who  worked  those  grounds 
took  each  one  hundred  shells  for  one  day's  sport. 
And  this  did  not  mean  that  each  bird  required  a 


42  Sporting  Sketches 

deal  of  shooting.  On  the  contrary  there  were  men 
who  might  average  fully  three-fourths  of  all  their 
birds  and  who  were  able  to  grass  snipe  after  snipe 
without  a  mistake  upon  days  when  things  worked 
just  right.  I  have  seen  a  private  match  at  twenty 
birds  per  man  result  in  a  straight  score  for  the  win- 
ner, while  the  loser  missed  but  twice. 

While  the  great  flight  of  snipe  extends  well  to  the 
northward  of  New  England,  occasional  nests  have 
been  found  in  Connecticut  and  Pennsylvania.  A 
slight  hollow  in  the  ground,  or  a  tuft  of  rank  grass, 
holds  the  three  or  four  eggs,  which  are  olive-gray 
washed  with  dull  brown  and  spotted  and  scribbled 
at  the  larger  end  with  deep  brown  and  black.  The 
courtship  is  peculiar,  the  male  and  female  frequently 
rising  high  in  air  and  sweeping  about  in  swift  circles, 
then  diving  earthward  at  full  speed,  at  the  same  time 
producing  a  queer  rolling  sound  impossible  to  repre- 
sent on  paper.  This  "  drumming,"  as  it  is  termed 
by  sportsmen,  is  also  frequently  performed  by  single 
birds  and  late  in  the  season  as  well  as  during  the 
period  of  courtship.  A  drumming  snipe  not  seldom 
ascends  until  almost  invisible,  then  seemingly  flies 
straight  down  at  an  amazing  rate,  whereupon  is 
heard  a  loud  humming,  presumably  caused  by  the 
rushing  of  the  air  through  the  primaries.  An  empty, 
corkless  ink-bottle  swiftly  thrown  will  produce  a 
similar  sound,  and  the  old  schoolboy  trick  of  making 
a  nail  hum  is  no  bad  imitation. 

The  snipe  occasionally  takes  to  some  large, 
horizontal  limb,  more  often  alights  upon  the  top  rail 
of  a  fence,  a  stump,  or  big  log,  and  I  once  saw  one 
standing  on  the  top  of  a  stout  post  which  supported 


The  Wizard,  of  tbe  Wetlands  43 

wire.  Another  bird  was  seen  to  pitch  on  a  small 
stack  which  was  surrounded  by  water,  and  yet 
another  upon  the  roof  of  an  old  outhouse.  There 
was  no  mistake  in  either  case,  for  I  flushed  and 
killed  the  bird  on  the  stack  and  had  a  close  view  of 
the  other  before  it  left  the  roof. 

The  names  by  which  the  snipe  is  known  in  various 
localities  are  rather  numerous  and  some  of  them 
quite  curious.  While  the  correct  one  is  Wilson's 
snipe,  we  find  "  American  snipe,"  "  common  snipe," 
"  snipe,"  "  meadow  snipe,"  "  little  wood-snipe," 
"  English  snipe,"  "  bog  snipe,"  "  marsh  snipe,"  "  Jack 
snipe,"  "  alewife  bird,"  "  shad  spirit,"  "  shad-bird,"  and 
"  gutter  snipe."  It  is  "  a  snipe  or  snite,  a  bird  lesse 
than  a  woodcocke,"  in  Baret's  "Alveary,"  1580;  and  in 
Drayton's  "Owl,"  1604,  occurs,  "the  witless  woodcock 
and  his  neighbor  snite."  Other  sometime  crumbled 
old  parties  speak  of  "  simpes  "  and  "  simps,"  and  I 
.sincerely  trust  their  shooting  was  a  lot  above  the 
average  of  their  spelling.  The  name  "Jack  snipe," 
so  persistently  used  by  some  writers  who  ought  to 
know  better,  is  misleading,  as  it  rightly  belongs  to 
a  smaller  bird  which  so  far  as  may  be  learned  from 
authentic  records  has  been  taken  only  upon  the 
other  side  of  the  Herring  Pond.  One  excellent 
authority  refers  to  it  as  "  a  twiddling  jack  "  and 
unworthy  of  the  notice  of  sportsmen. 

The  flight  of  the  snipe  is  swift,  vigorous,  and 
usually  for  the  first  few  yards  erratic.  The  bird 
gets  under  way  smartly  and  as  a  usual  thing  goes 
boring  up-wind  in  a  style  rather  suggestive  of  a 
feathered  corkscrew.  A  series  of  electrical  zigzags 
gets  him  to  top  speed,  whereupon  his  progress  stead- 


44  Sporting  Sketches 

ies  a  bit  and  he  darts  away  in  something  more  like 
a  straight  line.  As  a  general  rule,  a  flushed  bird 
springs  a  few  feet  into  the  air,  hangs  for  the  fraction 
of  a  second,  then  begins  to  twist  and  dodge  as 
though  the  Old  Boy  was  at  his  tail.  It  would  be 
very  interesting  could  we  discover  the  original  cause 
of  the  dodging.  Possibly  some  ancient  foe,  now 
long  extinct,  was  best  baffled  by  that  mode  of  flight, 
for  there  usually  is  some  such  explanation  for 
peculiar  actions  by  wild  things.  Because  the  flight 
happens  to  be  puzzling  to  a  gunner  is  no  guarantee 
that  the  bird  dodges  for  that  purpose  —  such  an 
explanation  would  imply  a  deal  more  intelligence 
than  the  entire  tribe  of  snipe  is  possessed  of.  Snipe, 
of  course,  dodged  on  the  wing  long  prior  to  the 
appearance  of  firearms,  and  it  is  extremely  unlikely 
that  the  erratic  flight  has  anything  in  the  nature  of 
protective  tactics  against  the  devices  of  human  foes. 

The  fame  of  the  bird  as  an  object  of  the  sports- 
man's pursuit  has  been  fairly  earned.  Swift,  small, 
erratic,  he  presents  the  most  difficult  mark  of  all  our 
game  of  shore  and  upland.  In  my  opinion  only  teal 
and  canvasback  are  harder  propositions,  and  with 
them  the  real  difficulty  is  apt  to  be  more  of  weather 
conditions  and  the  methods  usually  employed  rather 
than  the  speed  of  the  fowl,  great  though  it  be.  The 
shooting  of  the  snipe  is  unlike  that  of  any  other 
bird.  Some  men  attain  truly  wonderful  skill  at  it, 
and  as  a  rule  such  men  are  referred  to  as  "  crack 
snipe  shots,"  instead  of  the  broader  term  "crack 
shots." 

To  me  there  is  a  trifle  too  much  of  sameness 
about  it.  I  am  no  shirker  in  the  field,  yet  there  is 


The  Wizard  of  tbe  Wetlands  45 

a  tinge  of  monotony  about  marsh  lands  and  unend- 
ing mud  and  water  which  cannot  hold  me  as  does 
the  infinite  variety  of  conditions,  the  marvellous 
beauty  of  turning  foliage,  and  the  clean,  vigorous 
action  of  sport  on  the  uplands.  In  point  of  fact  I 
could  enjoy  six  days  per  week  of  grouse,  quail,  and 
cock ;  but  it  is  questionable  if  the  charm  of  snipe 
shooting  would  wear  equally  as  well. 

And  now  the  actual  shooting.  The  best  gun  is  a 
light,  close,  hard  shooter,  because  the  mark  is  swift 
and  small  and  half  the  chances  at  longish  range,  the 
average  rise  being  yards  farther  than  is  the  rule  in 
Bob  White  shooting.  I  use  number  eight  shot, 
because  to  my  notion  the  popular  number  ten  is  apt 
to  mean  too  many  pellets  in  the  meat  and  conse- 
quently too  much  lead  for  busy  teeth  later  on.  The 
quantity  of  smokeless  powder  will  depend  upon  the 
gun  —  I  believe  in  using  plenty,  all  the  gun  can 
burn  properly,  for  the  large  percentage  of  long  shots 
demand  all  possible  power.  When  birds  are  few,  a 
free-ranging  pointer  or  setter  is  an  invaluable  helper ; 
where  birds  are  very  plentiful,  a  reliable  spaniel,  that 
will  keep  at  heel  until  ordered  out,  is  all  the  dog 
required.  I  am  not  overfond  of  running  a  fine 
pointer  or  setter  all  day  on  wet  mud.  It  is  hard 
upon  his  feet  and  coat,  and  unless  he  be  carefully 
washed  and  thoroughly  dried  so  soon  as  the  shoot- 
ing has  ended,  he  is  apt  to  have  a  miserable  time  of 
it  during  the  long  ride  home  and  be  all  stiffened  up 
in  the  morning.  Very  frequently,  too,  a  fine  dog, 
unless  broken  on  snipe,  is  apt  to  try  to  get  too  close 
to  his  birds  and  so  cause  flushes.  When  snipe  are 
wild,  as  often  happens,  a  dog  must  point  at  long 


46  Sporting  Sketches 

range.  Dogs  broken  on  Bob  Whites,  and  in  every 
way  reliable  on  the  uplands,  could  not  be  expected 
to  understand  this,  and  some  of  them  require  days 
to  master  the  peculiarities  of  the  long-bills. 

A  great  many  men  employ  Bob  White  tactics 
when  after  snipe,  especially  in  regard  to  beating  up- 
wind. This  I  do  not  advise,  because  it  means  a  lot 
of  birds  boring  into  the  wind's  eye  and  dodging  like 
mad  while  offering  the  smallest  possible  marks.  A 
cross  section  of  a  snipe  going  straight  away  is  much 
smaller  than  many  people  imagine.  The  vitals  of 
a  bird  so  going  might  be  covered  by  a  silver  dollar, 
the  head  is  apt  to  be  covered  by  the  body,  while 
only  the  edges  of  the  wings  are  exposed,  which 
means  an  extremely  narrow  surface.  Because  the 
bird  loves  to  bore  up-wind,  I  walk  down-wind,  thus 
securing  a  quick  chance  as  he  curves  into  the  wind 
in  front,  or  else  a  square  crossing  shot  as  he  passes 
up-wind  at  either  side.  In  these  positions  the  effect 
of  his  dodging  is  minimized,  while  I  still  retain  the 
privilege  of  making  a  half  turn  and  using  the  second 
barrel  at  a  straightaway  or  almost  a  straightaway  bird 
that  has  got  through  dodging  and  is  trusting  solely 
to  speed.  In  all  these  shots  the  gun  has  a  better 
chance,  in  a  straightaway  after  the  turn,  while,  of 
course,  the  side  shots  mean  all  one  side  of  the  bird 
and  most  of  the  long  wings  fully  exposed.  This 
gives  the  gun  a  rather  large  target  instead  of  a  very 
small  one,  and  practically  does  away  with  the  saving 
erratic  flight. 

The  reason  why  some  men  work  up-wind  is  be- 
cause they  imagine  the  straightaway  shot  to  be 
easier.  They  fail  at  crossing  shots,  not  because  the 


The  Wizard  of  the  Wetlands  47 

shot  is  difficult,  but  because  they  have  not  learned 
how  to  make  it  —  in  other  words  they  never  have 
mastered  the  highly  important  points,  allowing  a 
fast  bird  plenty  of  lead  and  pulling  trigger  with- 
out checking  the  steady  swing  of  the  gun.  Unless 
one  is  holding  a  tremendous  distance  ahead,  to  stop 
the  swing  of  the  gun  means  to  miss  through  shooting 
behind.  Quickly  as  shot  travels  there  is  a  fractional 
loss  of  time  between  the  beginning  of  the  movement 
by  the  trigger  ringer  and  the  arrival  of  the  pellets 
at  any  point,  —  for  convenience  say  thirty  or  forty 
yards  from  the  muzzle.  During  that  interval,  brief 
though  it  be,  a  snipe  will  travel  a  certain  distance, 
and  that  distance  is  precisely  what  the  gun  should 
be  ahead  of  him  when  the  trigger  finger  starts  to 
pull. 

Those  who  have  not  actually  experimented  with 
the  pattern  of  guns  and  the  matter  of  leading  fast 
birds  according  to  distance,  might  with  advantage 
make  a  few  patterns  at  twenty,  thirty,  and  forty 
yards,  using  a  thirty-inch  circle  upon  large  sheets 
of  paper.  The  results  will  show  a  spread  of  pattern 
as  the  distance  is  increased,  and  let  us  hope  an  even 
and  fairly  close  distribution  of  the  pellets,  for  that 
means  a  useful  field-gun.  The  twenty-yard  pattern 
will  show  the  shot  so  closely  bunched  that  no  snipe 
within  its  circle  could  escape  instant  death.  At  the 
distance,  then,  the  one  necessary  thing  is  to  get  any 
part  of  that  pattern  on  him ;  but  correct  shooting 
would  demand  his  being  exactly  centred.  To  insure 
this  the  gun  would  have  to  be  held  just  ahead  of 
him  and  kept  swinging  at  exactly  his  speed  and  not 
stopped  as  the  trigger  was  pulled.  At  thirty  yards 


48  Sporting  Sketches 

it  is  still  more  important  that  he  be  centred,  because 
the  charge  has  loosened  considerably,  while  the  most 
pellets,  hence  the  smallest  gaps  in  the  pattern,  are 
in  the  centre.  For  the  same  reason  that  necessi- 
tated holding  just  ahead  at  twenty  yards,  the  lead 
must  now  be  increased  one-half  to  insure  the  best 
results  at  the  ten  yards  of  increased  range.  At 
forty  yards  the  pattern  has  opened  sufficiently  to 
allow  free  passage  to  an  object  the  size  of  a  snipe 
at  several  points  toward  the  outer  limit,  yet  there 
remain  enough  closely  placed  pellets  at  the  centre 
to  do  the  work.  If  a  second  smaller  circle  be  now 
described,  which  includes  all  of  the  paper  which 
shows  no  dangerous  gap,  the  deadly  portion  of  the 
charge  will  be  determined.  To  make  sure  of  a 
snipe,  that  portion  must  cover  him  at  forty  yards, 
and  to  insure  its  reaching  the  proper  spot  at  the 
exact  moment,  the  gun  must  be  held  ahead  just 
twice  the  distance  which  the  twenty-yard  range  de- 
manded. In  other  words,  as  the  shot  leaves  the 
muzzle,  the  latter  should  be  some  inches  ahead  of 
the  bird  and  swinging  in  true  time  with  the  mark. 
At  greater  distances  the  lead  must  be  increased  in 
proportion ;  but  other  possibilities  now  creep  in,  be- 
cause, as  the  charge  spreads  more  and  more,  too  large 
gaps  may  appear  almost  anywhere,  which  means  the 
extreme  reliable  range  of  the  gun  has  been  passed. 

A  few,  possibly  successive,  extremely  long  shots 
prove  nothing  beyond  the  fact  of  the  gun's  being  a 
hard  shooter,  as  at  the  same  time  the  patterns  might 
be  poor.  I  have  killed  snipe  when  they  seemed  be- 
yond the  range  of  the  gun ;  but^such  kills  are  merely 
accidental.  No  wise  man  would  dare  wager  upon 


The  Wizard  of  the  Wetlands  49 

such  shots  because  he  knows  the  pellets  might  not 
again  find  the  mark  once  in  ten  attempts,  although 
given  the  proper  allowance  for  the  distance. 

There  are  two  deadly  methods  of  shooting  straight- 
away snipe.  One  is  lightning-fast,  the  next  thing 
to  out-and-out  snap  shooting.  The  other  is  to  wait 
until  the  bird  has  completed  his  shifty  first  flight 
and  give  it  to  him  the  moment  he  steadies.  Both 
are  scientific.  I  prefer  the  former,  because,  being 
naturally  very  quick  with  my  hands,  I  can  get  on  a 
bird  before  he  has  time  to  begin  dodging.  Were 
it  not  for  this,  I  certainly  should  wait.  A  man  to 
shoot  at  all  evenly  must  do  one  or  other,  for  any 
attempt  at  a  compromise  will  leave  him  neither 
quick  nor  slow  and  prone  to  fire  at  precisely  the 
wrong  moment,  when  the  wizard  of  the  wet  lands  is 
in  the  midst  of  his  little  trick  wherein  the  quickness 
of  the  wing  deceives  the  eye. 

And  now  a  glimpse  of  snipe  shooting  in  which 
the  characteristic  sameness  of  leagues  of  wide  wet 
lands  and  successive  springing,  dodging,  scaiping 
sprites  was  a  bit  varied.  Unto  me  spake  long  Tom, 
and  his  words  were  crisp  and  as  follows :  — 

"  Now  will  you  be  ready  at  3  A.M.  and  game  to 
foot  it  out  ?  " 

"I  will! "said  I. 

I  meant  it,  and  I  had  need  to,  for  when  long  Tom 
got  through  with  you,  other  things  also  seemed  long, 
notably  that  awful  final  homeward  mile.  Our  cam- 
paign necessitated  a  gray-dawn  start,  because  it 
began  with  a  six-mile  tramp  in  cold  blood  along  a 
railroad  track.  We  might  have  driven  to  one  cor- 
ner of  the  ground,  but  to  take  a  horse  also  meant 


50  Sporting  Sketches, 

that  which  we  both  detested  —  a  fixed  point  to 
which  we  would  have  to  return  at  evening.  And 
when  you  take  a  horse  snipe  shooting  the  birds  in- 
variably are  most  abundant  farthest  from  where  you 
tie  the  brute,  and  at  nightfall  you  are  apt  to  find 
yourself  only  five  miles  from  home,  but  eight  miles 
from  the  horse.  Then,  of  course,  you  have  to  — 
but,  reader,  you  understand ! 

We  started  at  dawn,  and  so  soon  as  we  had  reached 
the  railroad  Tom  tersely  remarked :  — 

"  Come,  shake  those  long  legs.  I've  got  you 
where  I  want  you  now ! " 

This  was  pregnant  with  fell  intent,  and  I  grinned 
defiance,  for  we  were  about  the  same  age  and  weight, 
in  fact,  six-foot  two-hundred-pounders,  and  about 
even  all  around.  As  is  usual  when  a  couple  of 
behemoths  get  to  playing,  there  was  considerable 
pounding  of  gravel. 

Before  us  spread  miles  of  ground,  of  all  degrees 
of  consistency  between  semi-liquid  and  putty-like 
stiffness.  A  strip  of  it,  perhaps  two  miles  long  by 
one-half  broad,  began  near  our  feet  and  ended  near 
a  dim  blue  mass  which  betokened  higher  ground 
and  forest,  and  near  those  trees  was  a  broad  creek. 

"  Come  on !  I've  got  you  now  !  "  chortled  Tom, 
and  I  thought  of  Kilkenny  cats  and  sighed  for  the 
things  which  I  knew  would  happen  and  unwittingly 
for  one  thing  of  which  neither  of  us  dreamed.  For 
half  a  mile  the  footing  was  fairly  good,  and,  as  we 
both  wore  ordinary  walking  boots  and  leggins,  we 
escaped  the  harassing  drag  of  the  customary  wad- 
ers, which  are  good  enough  when  one  intends  to 
drive  home,  but  worse  than  useless  for  a  long  tramp 


Tbe  Wizard  of  tbe  Wetlands  51 

on  dry  going.  Presently  we  began  to  get  a  bit  anx- 
ious and  to  more  than  half  wish  for  the  canines  left 
securely  kennelled  at  home.  Upon  such  ground, 
with  birds  plentiful,  dogs  are  unnecessary,  but 
where,  as  sometimes  happens,  the  snipe  are  broadly 
scattered,  the  conditions  are  reversed. 

We  were  some  thirty  yards  apart,  when  suddenly 
I  heard  the  well-known  whip-hip-hip  of  bent  wings 
and  the  "  Scaip-sca-ip !  "  as  an  artful  dodger  flushed 
before  Tom.  Old  "  Take-your-Time  "  was  a  picture 
as  he  flashed  the  beautiful  arm  into  position,  then 
waited  those  straining  seconds  till  the  dodging 
ceased.  Then  came  the  puny  "  squinge  "  of  smoke- 
less, and  somebody's  long  bill  was  settled  in  full. 
Breaking  the  gun  as  he  went,  and  never  taking  his 
eyes  off  that  one  spot  of  a  thousand  similar  spots, 
Tom  moved  forward  thirty  yards  and  retrieved.  The 
whole  performance  was  a  perfect  illustration  of  the 
deliberate  method  of  which  he  undeniably  was  a 
master. 

"  That  long  brute's  dead-on  to-day,"  was  my  in- 
ward comment,  as  I  moved  ahead. 

"  Whip-hip !     Whip-hip  —  Scaip-sca-ip !  " 

A  brace  of  unpatented  corkscrews  were  ready  to 
bore  holes  in  the  whence,  but  the  light  gun  just 
cleared  its  throat  a  couple  of  times  and  both  birds 
hearkened  to  the  warning,  and  that  before  the  second 
had  time  to  make  one  decent  twist. 

"  I'll  mark  the  last  one,"  said  Tom,  as  I  went  to 
the  first  bird.  Right  well  he  knew  how  I'd  com- 
pletely lose  track  of  one  the  moment  I  left  the  firing 
point,  and  he  followed  the  best  method,  to  stand  in 
his  tracks  and  keep  his  eyes  on  the  spot  and  direct 


52  Sporting  Sketches 

the  search  for  the  second.  When  shooting  alone, 
or  far  from  a  comrade,  and  a  double  is  made,  I  re- 
load before  stirring  a  foot.  This  leaves  two  empty 
shells  on  the  ground,  to  indicate  my  exact  position, 
and  this,  with  the  memory  of  the  turn  or  partial 
turn  made  for  the  second,  gives  a  close  line  on  its 
whereabouts.  Very  frequently  this  saves  a  bird  and 
valuable  time,  for,  at  the  worst,  it  will  guide  to  within 
a  few  yards  of  the  game,  and  every  yard  saved  in 
beating  foot  by  foot  through  grass  is  important. 
Hat  or  handkerchief  dropped  at  the  firing  point 
also  makes  a  useful  mark  when  grass  is  tall.  A 
snipe  breast  upward  is  easily  seen,  but  only  about 
half  of  them  fall  in  that  position.  Back  upward, 
the  striped  effect  blends  curiously  with  grass  and  its 
shadows,  and  a  winged,  or  otherwise,  wounded,  bird 
seems  to  know  this,  and  to  act  accordingly.  Men 
trained  on  the  wet  lands  acquire  a  marvellous  knack 
of  marking  down,  and  a  mighty  useful  accomplish- 
ment it  is. 

Moving  on,  Tom  flushed  a  brace  on  bare  ground 
and  scored,  the  last  bird  falling  full  fifty  yards  from 
the  gun.  I  marvelled,  for  it  was  a  long,  clean  kill. 
Before  he  reached  these,  two  single  chances  were 
offered  and  accepted,  and  a  third  bird  went  career- 
ing away,  rising  higher  and  higher,  like  a  wind- 
driven  leaf.  As  Tom's  birds  lay  upon  easy  ground, 
I  kept  my  position,  more  from  habit  than  with  any 
idea  of  being  of  service.  A  wave  of  his  hand  di- 
rected my  attention  to  the  late  towering  bird,  which, 
as  they  frequently  will,  had  decided  to  return.  Like 
a  plummet  it  fell  some  thirty  yards  away,  and,  as  an 
experiment,  I  held  about  four  feet  under,  and  it  hit 


The  Wizard,  of  tbe  Wetlands  53 

the  mud  with  a  resounding  spat.  It  was  a  great 
shot,  and  Tom's  emphatic  "  Broke  its  own  neck  " 
was  merely  his  way  of  expressing  keen  appre- 
ciation. 

For  an  hour  after  this  there  was  very  pretty 
shooting.  The  birds  were  nicely  distributed,  rising 
singly  and  well  within  range,  and  only  a  trio  prov- 
ing the  truth  of  the  oft-repeated  "  Scaip  —  scaip  !  " 
Finally  a  missed  bird  pitched  in  a  broad  patch  of 
short  stuff,  which  showed  a  springlike  greenness, 
and  Tom  turned  after  it. 

"  Look  out  there  !  Where  the  mischief  ye  goin'  ?  " 
I  yelled ;  but  it  was  too  late.  In  an  instant,  it 
seemed,  he  was  down  and  floundering,  and  the 
whoop  he  uttered  might  have  been  heard  for 
miles.  If  any  of  my  readers  have  attempted  to  run 
in  snipe  ground,  they  will  understand  my  task. 
Luckily  it  was  short.  To  skin  out  of  the  coat,  drop 
gun  and  hat  upon  it,  and  start  for  him,  was  the  work 
of  very  few  seconds.  His  face  was  ghastly  white, 
and  the  treacherous  ooze  was  up  to  his  belt,  and  he 
was  slowly  sinking.  After  his  first  wild  scramble, 
he  had  wisely  ceased  all  effort,  but  he  was  scared 
clear  through.  So  was  I,  for  that  matter,  for  it  was 
a  nasty  situation.  He  had  his  gun,  but  I  dared  not 
venture  near  enough  for  that  to  be  of  use  ;  besides, 
I  questioned  if  either  of  our  grips  would  stand  the 
pull  upon  such  poor  holding. 

The  belt  and  corduroys !  Glory  be !  'Twas  a 
noble  inspiration  —  Nay !  The  very  thing  I  was 
panting  for  —  such  things  are  made  long  for  six- 
footers.  Those  who  have  attempted  to  take  off 
trousers  while  standing  on  snipe  ground  will  under- 


54  Sporting  Sketches 

stand  why  I  presently  cursed  and  sat  down  upon 
cool,  moist  mud ;  but  the  legs  were  full  measure  and 
the  material  stout.  The  seam  never  would  stand 
the  strain;  but  the  good  old  belt,  made  fast  to  the 
upper  part  of  one  leg,  carried  across  the  seat  and 
again  made  fast,  would  take  the  direct  pull.  In  a 
few  moments  the  tackle  was  ready,  and  I  reached 
for  his  gun.  He  hated  to  let  go  of  it,  and  I  didn't 
blame  him. 

"  Here's  your  life-line,  remember  they  cost  a  ten- 
spot,"  I  ventured,  as  I  tossed  him  one  leg  of  the 
trousers.  The  way  his  hand  clutched  the  cloth  was 
a  marvel  to  see,  and  I  at  once  realized  that  he  had 
to  be  got  out,  or  I'd  have  to  paddle  home  without 
any  panties.  "  Steady  now ;  wiggle  your  legs  a 
bit,"  I  grunted  as  I  cautiously  put  on  the  strain. 
There  was  one  moment  of  agonizing  doubt ;  then 
Thomas  began  to  come,  and  finally,  with  a  sort  of 
regretful  sucking  sigh,  the  awful  trap  let  go  and  he 
came  slithering  out  of  that. 

Mud!  I  mined  into  a  pocket  till  I  found  pay- 
dirt  —  otherwise  his  flask,  cleaned  it  with  grass  and 
we  halved  the  contents.  Then  we  looked  at  each 
other  and  laughed  in  a  semi-hysterical  sort  of  way, 
for  each  knew,  and  well,  too,  how  serious  a  thing 
had  passed. 


CDUAlPTEffi 

EBEACffil 

SOMEWHERE  across  the  vast  dome  of  blue  which 
arches  in  flawless  beauty  above  the  Great  Lakes  on 
fair  May  days  are  unblazed,  mystic,  invisible  trails. 
Unseen  by  human  eye,  unknown  to  human  brain, 
understood  only  by  a  marvellous  God-planted  in- 
stinct, these  trails  extend  now,  as  they  have  extended 
for  uncounted  ages.  The  microscopic  eye  of  science 
scans  the  distant  blue  in  vain  for  trace  of  them,  or 
for  the  unknown  signs  by  which  these  trails  are 
followed  with  unerring  certainty  by  uncounted  hosts 
of  airy  voyageurs.  The  scientist  knows  of  the  exist- 
ence of  the  trails  and  of  their  myriad  travellers ;  he 
knows  that  somewhere  in  the  glowing  south  and 
somewhere  in  the  lonely  north  the  unblazed  trails 
begin  and  end,  and  that  they  are  marked  here  and 
there,  at  proper  intervals,  by  resting-places,  for  the 
trailers. 

Some  day,  beyond  the  misty  clouds  of  counted 
years,  ere  brain's  first  feeble  thought  was  rudely 
scratched  or  chipped  upon  time-defying  stone,  the 
God  who  made  the  birds  held  two  of  each  race  in 
mighty  hands  and  lovingly  whispered  to  them  the  se- 
crets of  sky-paths  and  of  their  wondrous  journeyings 
to  be.  And  with  that  knowledge,  and  with  the  power 
to  transmit  it  to  their  kinds,  flew  forth  the  earliest 
pairs  to  test  together  the  trails  from  south  to  north 

55 


56  Sporting  Sketches 

and  from  north  to  south,  and  in  the  first  testing  to 
prove  their  teacher  true  and  kind. 

For  ages  the  rivers  of  nervous  life  have  flowed  to 
and  fro  atween  shadowy  banks  with  unfailing  regu- 
larity as  the  ordained  seasons  change.  In  the  soft 
spring  nights  the  hurrying  pilgrims  pass  unseen, 
but  earthward  from  the  trails  sink  sounds  of  life  at 
speed.  The  hum  and  hiss  and  flick  of  busy  wings, 
the  queries  of  many  tongues  questioning  and  an- 
swering anent  the  way,  fall  in  musical  whispers  upon 
the  trained  ear  of  science  hid  in  the  blackness  far 
below,  and  tell  who  press  the  trails  so  fast,  from 
whence  and  whither  bound. 

There  are  other  trails  than  those  above  the  re- 
gion of  the  Great  Lakes.  East  and  west,  above 
Atlantic  and  Pacific  shores,  above  the  great  plains 
and  forests,  are  trails  traversed  by  their  own  multi- 
tudes—  convenient  routes  for  feathered  offspring 
of  certain  sections  of  country.  The  peoples  that 
swarmed  these  many  trails  in  the  past  and  unfor- 
tunately only  traverse  them  in  decreased  numbers 
now,  represent  mainly  the  two  great  orders  of  bird- 
dom,  —  the  Grallatores  and  Natatores ;  in  plain 
North  American,  the  tribes  of  waders  and  of  swim- 
mers. Nearly  all  the  species  embraced  within  the 
two  orders  are  considered  worthy  victims  for  the 
true  nimrod's  weapon,  and  it  is  to  be  regretted  that 
to  the  sport-affording  and  edible  qualities  of  many 
of  them  must  be  attributed  their  present  scarcity  in 
districts  where  not  many  years  ago  they  absolutely 
swarmed  during  their  periods^  of  migration.  The 
order  of  Grallatores  comprises"  such  families  as  the 
herons,  cranes,  bitterns,  snipes,  plovers,  phalaropes, 


Beacb  Combers  57 

sandpipers,  and  rails,  while  among  the  Natatores 
are  the  swans,  geese,  ducks,  loons,  cormorants,  shel- 
drakes, gulls,  terns,  gannets,  guillemots,  grebes,  pet- 
rels, auks,  and  puffins. 

Greater  or  lesser  numbers  of  nearly  all  of  these 
families  annually  flew  (and  many  of  them  still  fly) 
the  airy  trails  above  the  Great  Lakes  and  halted  ar 
the  several  resting-places  which  the  nature  of  the 
country  afforded.  Prominent  among  these  resting- 
places  for  the  ofttime  weary  and  storm-driven 
pilgrims  were  the  sandy  reaches  now  known  as 
Toronto  Island,  opposite  the  city  of  Toronto,  situated 
upon  Toronto  Bay,  an  indentation  of  the  shore  of 
Lake  Ontario.  This  formed  a  perfect  paradise  for 
shore  and  aquatic  birds,  and  to-day  the  bars,  in  spite 
of  being  overlooked  by  a  city  of  about  two  hundred 
thousand  population,  are  frequented  by  a  variety  of 
the  families  of  both  the  orders. 

It  seems  that  in  the  past  the  island,  beaches,  and 
bars  of  this  bay  formed  one  of  the  most  important 
"  road-houses "  for  feathered  travellers  along  the 
northward  route,  and  many  a  rare  and  valuable 
specimen  unknown  to  the  average  sportsman  has 
been  there  secured.  Birds  rarely  found  in  Canadian 
collections,  such  as  the  ruff,  red  phalarope,  avocet, 
and  stilt,  now  and  then  fell  to  the  guns  of  men  who 
sought  the  island  before  break  of  day,  and  who  lay 
patiently  in  wait  till  evening  shadows  closed.  A 
few  decades  ago  one  gun  might  bag  anywhere  from 
one  hundred  to  upward  of  half  a  thousand  plover  of 
various  kinds  in  a  single  day's  shooting,  and  even 
now  men  who  understand  the  annual  flights  of  mi- 
grants can  bag  respectable  lots  of  "  black-hearts  " 


58  Sporting  Sketches 

(red-backed  sandpipers)  and  other  waders  in  the 
spring. 

Among  the  rarer  birds  known  to  have  been  killed 
on  the  island  and  adjacent  marshes  are  the  white 
pelican,  trumpeter  swan,  white-fronted  goose,  snow- 
goose,  king  eider,  that  rara  avis  the  harlequin  duck, 
canvasback,  and  sandhill  crane. 

Another  famous  resort  of  these  migrants  was  the 
marshy  country  about  Lake  St.  Clair,  the  link  be- 
tween Lakes  Huron  and  Erie,  and  on  these  grounds, 
a  few  years  ago,  when  I  was  completing  one  of  the 
finest  collections  of  birds  in  Canada,  I  saw,  handled, 
mounted,  or  shot  specimens  of  the  white  pelican, 
white  heron,  sandhill  crane,  avocet,  red  and  gray 
phalarope,  cormorant,  brant,  trumpeter  swan,  and 
snow-goose,  and  other  rara  aves,  among  a  miscella- 
neous assortment  of  swimmers  and  waders. 

Some  of  these  birds  have  been  questioned  by 
well-informed  ornithologists,  but  the  best  possible 
evidence  of  their  occasional  presence  in  the  resorts 
referred  to  can  be  shown  in  the  mounted  specimens 
which  exist  to-day  as  perfect  as  when  they  left  the 
taxidermist's  hands.  No  expert  can  mistake  the 
phalaropes  if  he  is  familiar  with  the  foot  of  the  bird, 
or  the  avocet  if  he  knows  the  bill,  and  in  regard  to 
the  white  pelican  and  white  heron,  the  specimens 
are  not  only  preserved  in  good  condition,  but  were 
kept  for  some  time  at  my  home  alive,  the  birds  in 
question  being  secured  wing-tipped  by  lucky  shots. 

Still  another  resting-place  —  and  those  who  shot 
there  a  few  years  ago  will  not  soon  forget  its  swarm- 
ing feathered  guests  —  is  the  "beautiful  Rond  Eau 
harbor,  on  Lake  Erie.  Here  a  grand  land-locked 


Beach  Combers  59 

expanse  of  water,  connected  with  Erie  by  the  nar- 
rowest of  navigable  channels,  extends  inland  like  a 
great,  almost  circular  pocket.  Between  it  and  the 
lake  are  miles  of  narrow  sand-bars,  ideal  coursing 
grounds  for  Charadridce  and  Tringince,  and  ringing 
the  open  water  are  belts  of  rice  and  rush,  broad  and 
fretted  with  lily-laden  channels  and  spangled  with 
shallow  ponds,  beloved  of  Anatince.  Beyond  the 
marshy  borders  stands  a  semicircle  of  forest  growth 
of  varying  size,  where,  underneath  great  elms,  cur- 
rentless  creeks  choke  in  sheer  laziness  with  lily-pads 
and  varied  weeds  and  form  delightful  retreats  for 
wood-duck,  teal,  and  rail.  The  soil  of  this  forested 
part  finally  becomes  dry  and  elevated  some  distance 
from  the  harbor,  but  in  the  main  it  is  moist  and 
black  and  fat  —  the  kind  best  of  all  suited  to  King 
Woodcock's  taste. 

A  list  of  the  waders  and  swimmers  of  interest 
to  sportsmen,  which  were  regularly  or  occasionally 
taken  at  Rond  Eau,  would  give  a  good  idea  of  what  a 
magnificent  shooting-ground  the  place  formerly  was, 
and  it  must  be  borne  in  mind  that  a  number  of 
varieties  haunted  the  place  in  clouds. 

Sportsmen  will  readily  understand  what  such  a 
varied  game-list  implied,  and  as  it  was  as  true  of 
Toronto  Island  and  Lake  St.  Clair  as  of  Rond  Eau, 
and  possibly  also  true  of  Long  Point  on  Lake  Erie, 
it  maybe  safely  said  that  these  four  localities  offered 
in  the  past  the  finest  mixed  shooting  in  all  Canada. 
But,  alas!  the  glory  of  nearly  all  has  departed. 
Long  Point  and  the  best  grounds  of  Lake  St.  Clair 
are  strictly  preserved,  Toronto  Island  has  met  the 
fate  of  all  such  grounds  within  sight  of  a  city,  and 


60  Sporting  Sketches 

Rond  Eau,  though  still  affording  a  certain  amount 
of  shooting,  has  been  practically  ruined. 

For  plover,  curlew,  and  kindred  varieties,  the  best 
season  for  sport  was  toward  the  close  of  May. 
"  Black-hearts  "  and  such  feathered  dainties  usually 
put  in  an  appearance  about  the  twenty-fourth  of  that 
month,  and  a  week  of  capital  shooting  was  almost 
certain  to  follow.  A  description  of  one  of  many 
outings  at  the  Eau  will  illustrate  the  fun  we  had. 

Larry  —  a  comrade  for  the  trip  in  question  —  and 
I  were  bank  clerks  then,  and  enjoyed  few  holidays. 
On  the  twenty-third  of  May  we  held  earnest  confer- 
ence. The  twenty-fourth  was  the  late  Queen's  birth- 
day and  a  national  holiday,  when  no  good  Canadian 
would  deign  to  toil  at  any  price,  or  do  aught  save 
what  pleased  him  best. 

We  decided  to  drive  twelve  miles  or  more,  to  the 
bar  of  Rond  Eau  harbor,  and  see  and  shoot  what 
was  visible  and  shootable  while  going,  while  there, 
and  while  returning.  The  road  thither  was  in  ex- 
cellent condition ;  so  a  trap  was  ordered  for  some 
time  before  daylight,  and  other  preparations  were 
speedily  completed.  We  started  at  gray  dawn.  In 
the  trap  were  the  twelve-gauges,  securely  cased  in 
oak  and  sole  leather,  respectively ;  a  bag  of  oats  for 
our  steed ;  a  plentiful  supply  of  grub  and  shells  for 
ourselves,  and  our  waders  and  oilskins.  Luckily  we 
were  given  a  good  nag  that  pulled  us  along  at  a 
spanking  clip. 

What  a  drive  that  was !  Two  weary  drudges  let 
loose  for  one  brief  day  to  revel  as  they  pleased  !  It 
was  a  perfect  May  morning,  a*nd  we  bowled  along 
between  farms  apparently  unending,  where  vaguely 


Beach  Combers  61 

defined,  mist-laden  fields  spread  away  to  seeming 
boundless  space.  The  great  slumbering  world  paid 
no  heed  to  us,  for  the  signal-fires  of  coming  dawn 
yet  flared  redly  in  the  east,  and  even  farmers  and 
their  dogs  and  fowl  snatch  sleep  at  times.  It  was 
good  to  just  sit  in  the  trap  and  bowl  along,  sniffing 
the  wondrous  spices  of  spring  in  the  air,  and  watch- 
ing the  light  gain  power  and  the  mist-curtains  roll 
away.  Long  ere  we  had  traversed  the  great  clear- 
ing of  farms,  lances  of  yellow  light  flashed  from  the 
east  and  clove  their  way  through  mists  and  shadows 
and  roused  a  myriad  lives  to  hail  the  sun. 

Birds  appeared  like  magic,  and  rills  of  sweetest 
song  bubbled  and  jingled  from  every  copse  and  cover, 
telling  the  joy  of  the  fresh-green,  flower-spangled 
world.  Big  grackles,  with  black  wedge-tails  twisted 
awry,  rasped  and  "  Ska-arred  "  as  they  flew  heavily 
from  fence-post  to  twig.  Starlings,  with  ebony  coats 
and  ruby  shoulder-straps,  queried  "  Cheer-cheer  ?  " 
and  voiced  their  musical  "  Konk-re-lay,"  a  bird  yodel 
of  strange  sweetness.  Meadow-larks  buzzed  to  and 
fro  in  brief,  straight  flights,  and  sent  long-drawn 
whistling  questions  to  each  other.  Bobolinks,  in 
half  mourning  of  creamy  plush  and  velvet  black, 
hung  overhead  and  drifted  o'er  the  fields,  gushing 
forth  golden  cascades  of  song,  as  though  the  mar- 
vellous artists  had  stolen  and  blended  the  ripple  of 
waters,  piping,  fluting,  and  the  jingle  of  sleighbells 
into  one  tangled  braid,  and  were  trying  to  say 
"  Whortle-berries  "  through  it  all  as  fast  as  possible. 
Bluebirds,  sparrows,  swallows,  —  all  were  there,  sing- 
ing as  though  their  wee  throats  would  burst  with 
gladness,  or  gliding  through  scented  airs  at  will. 


62  Sporting  Sketches 

Staid  robins  bounced  along  the  grass  in  measured 
hops,  and  now  and  then  a  liquid  fluting  and  a  flash 
of  orange  and  ebon  betrayed  the  Baltimore. 

In  time  we  reached  a  portion  of  the  road  where 
ancient  woods  opened  but  a  narrow  track  for  our 
passage,  and  where  great  trees  locked  arms  above 
our  heads.  Banks  of  blossoms,  like  lingering  drifts 
of  tinted  snows,  were  piled  in  careless  masses  here 
and  there,  and  from  the  cool,  moist  shades  came 
breaths  of  incense  shaken  from  tiny  censers  swing- 
ing above  cushions  of  moss  and  from  drooping 
boughs.  Once  a  scarlet  splash,  against  a  wall  of 
green,  rested  a  moment,  like  a  cardinal  flower,  then 
darted  into  friendly  cover  —  the  first  tanager. 

In  time  the  silver  of  Erie's  restless  breast  flashed 
in  front,  and  we  drove  down  to  the  wet  line  of  rip- 
ples upon  the  sand,  and  thence  for  miles  along  the 
beach,  to  where  the  sand-spit  narrowed  to  fifty  yards, 
and  the  Eau  lay  on  our  left  and  Erie  on  our  right, 
so  near  that  one  might  cast  a  stone  from  one  to  the 
other. 

A  rough  little  fishing-shanty  furnished  temporary 
shelter  for  our  weary  horse,  and  he  was  soon  made 
comfortable.  Then  we  lifted  out  gun-cases,  shells, 
and  waders,  and  prepared  for  sport.  While  Larry 
was  changing  his  foot-gear  I  unlocked  the  oak  gun- 
case,  and  had  barely  got  the  "  twelve "  together 
when  a  storm  of  "  black-hearts  "  drove  down  on  us, 
flying  but  a  few  feet  above  the  water.  I  had  just 
time  to  shove  in  one  shell,  and  as  they  passed  about 
twenty-five  yards  distant,  I  stopped  a  few  and  pro- 
ceeded to  gather  them  up.  When  I  returned,  Larry 
was  hot  all  through.  He  had  forgotten  his  keys 


Beacb  Combers  63 

and  could  not  open  his  fine  sole-leather  gun-case. 
It  seemed  a  shame  to  cut  the  case,  and  we  debated 
upon  the  possibility  of  both  using  my  gun,  turn 
about. 

A  moment  later  the  question  was  settled.  Chanc- 
ing to  glance  lakeward,  I  spied  a  wavering  dark 
cloud,  not  unlike  the  smoke  from  a  steamer's  stack. 

"  Larry,  look !  Curlew,  by  all  that's  glorious !  " 
Larry's  knife  was  out,  and  he  was  down  on  his 
knees  carving  the  prized  leather  case  in  ten  sec- 
onds, and  he  couldn't  cut  the  tough  leather  fast 
enough.  Finally  he  got  out  the  gun,  and  we  walked 
along  the  sand-spit,  one  following  the  edge  of  the 
Eau  and  the  other  that  of  Lake  Erie.  We  did  not 
care  for  the  "  black-hearts  "  and  little  sandpipers,  but 
with  the  larger  plover  and  curlew  it  was  another 
story. 

Birds  were  astonishingly  numerous,  coursing  over 
the  sand  ahead  and  driving  along  its  shore  line  in 
scattering  bunches ;  but  at  last  we  had  thoroughly 
roused  and  driven  most  of  them  away  to  the  bars 
beyond  the  impassable  channel  which  connects  the 
harbor  and  the  lake.  This  fact  worried  us  not  a  bit, 
for  sooner  or  later  they  were  bound  to  come  troop- 
ing back,  for  we  were  on  the  best  feeding-grounds. 
Our  clothes  matched  the  sand  beautifully,  and  we 
lay  down  about  fifty  yards  apart,  where  some  short, 
dead  stuff  furnished  the  little  cover  required. 

We  lay  and  smoked  and  talked  across  to  each 
other  in  lazy  comfort,  enjoying  a  sun-bath  and 
keeping  an  erratic  lookout  for  any  stray  curlew. 
A  "  robin-snipe "  undertook  to  pass  over  me,  and 
I  pulled  him  down,  for  his  kind  are  rare  in  that 


64  Sporting  Sketches 

locality.  Then  Larry  got  four  or  five  chances  at 
passing  pairs  of  black-bellied  plover,  and  knocked 
the  big  fellows  over  famously,  much  to  his  satisfac- 
tion, for  they  are  good  birds. 

At  last  a  double  gun  sounded  from  the  direction 
of  the  bars  whither  we  had  driven  the  flocks,  and 
soon  an  irregular  fire  proclaimed  that  others  were 
busy,  and  that  our  fun  would  shortly  begin.  We 
lay  low  and  waited,  and  soon  the  advance  guard  ap- 
peared. At  first  in  scattering  flocks,  then  in  one 
long  procession  came  waders  of  many  varieties,  and 
we  took  reasonable  toll  of  the  finer  sorts. 

All  this  time  we  had  seen  nothing  of  the  wished- 
for  curlew,  but  at  last  Larry  hailed  me  and  pointed 
lakeward.  There,  sure  enough,  was  a  distant  cloud 
of  birds,  and  I  moved  over  to  the  lake  side  of  the 
bar  and  lay  down  to  watch.  For  how  long  we  lay 
there  staring  out  over  the  shining  expanse  of  lake  I 
do  not  know,  but  we  had  distant  vision  of  a  tremen- 
dous flight  of  curlew,  all  apparently  bound  for  resorts 
on  Lake  Ontario.  Dark  cloud  after  dark  cloud,  like 
puffs  of  smoke  against  the  distant  blue,  showed, 
passed,  and  vanished,  as  though  following  some 
selected  route,  and  it  seemed  as  though  the  curlew 
had  utterly  forgotten  the  existence  of  our  tempting 
bars.  While  we  watched,  uncounted  plovers  and 
sandpipers  flew  over,  or  in  front  of,  or  pitched 
behind  us  near  the  place  I  had  forsaken,  but  we 
had  enough  of  them. 

It  has  been  truly  said  that  naught  can  escape  a 
patient  watch  and  vigil  long,  and  our  turn  came  at 
last.  Low  down  and  far  away -over  the  water  we 
saw  a  dark,  writhing,  changing  line  that  veered  and 


Beach  Combers  65 

tacked  from  left  to  right,  but  grew  plainer  every 
instant. 

"  Here  they  come  right  for  us  —  flatten  out  and 
wait!" 

Nearer  and  nearer  they  sped  until  we  could 
catch  the  faint  music  of  five  hundred  whistling 
throats.  Louder  and  louder  grew  the  clamor  till 
the  air  seemed  to  quiver  with  a  storm  of  "  Whew- 
ew-whew-whew-ew."  When  the  long,  droning, 
quavering,  blended  cries  struck  like  a  cascade  of 
noise  as  though  the  fowl  were  tonguing  in  our  very 
ears,  we  leaped  up.  Almost  over  us  was  a  cloud  of 
screaming  birds,  brown  of  bodies  and  as  large  as 
pigeons.  We  gathered  in  nine  shapely  prizes  with 
stilted  legs  and  long-curved  bills  like  sickles. 

Straightway  we  hunted  for  slim,  stiff  weed-stalks 
to  hold  the  birds'  necks  in  lifelike  position,  and  soon 
half-a-dozen  decoys  were  in  proper  array.  For  two 
hours  longer  we  waited,  and  then  a  pair  stooped  to 
the  decoys  and  were  promptly  attended  to.  Half 
an  hour  later  another  great  flock  clamored  in,  to 
pay  tribute  to  four  barrels.  Then  again  we  lay  and 
watched  till  the  sun  told  us  it  was  late  afternoon. 
In  the  dim  distance  other  flocks  followed  the  hosts 
that  had  passed,  but  no  more  came  our  way,  and 
Larry  finally  arose  and  in  a  loud  voice  informed  all 
fowl  within  earshot  that  he  was  hollow  all  the  way 
through,  and  would  eat  or  know  why. 

We  tramped  the  long  way  back  to  our  trap  and 
got  out  the  lunch  and  fed,  feeling  at  peace  with  all 
the  world.  Then  we  had  a  comfortable  smoke,  and 
after  that  smoothed  our  birds,  stowed  guns  in  cases, 
and  placed  all  in  the  trap.  Larry  led  the  nag  down 


66  Sporting  Sketches 

to  the  water  and  a  few  minutes  later  he  was  hooked 
up,  and  I  sat  in  the  trap  holding  the  lines  while 
Larry  loaded  his  pipe. 

I  have  heard  men  groan  under  stress  of  mental 
and  bodily  anguish  or  bitter  disappointment  when 
they  put  their  souls  into  their  work,  and  there  was 
no  fooling;  but  I  do  not  think  that  I  ever  heard  one 
single  sound  in  which  sorrow,  anger,  disappoint- 
ment, and  general  disgust  were  so  powerfully  blended 
as  in  the  voice  of  Larry  as  he  exclaimed,  "  Oh, 
murder,  look  at  that  now ! " 

I  turned  on  the  seat  and  glanced  hastily  along 
the  sand-spit  we  had  left.  There,  in  great  fluttering 
clouds,  in  hundreds  —  nay  !  thousands  —  were  the 
curlew  we  had  seen  a-wing  during  the  day.  Every 
one,  apparently,  of  the  many  distant  flocks  we  had 
longed  to  be  within  range  of  had  changed  its  course 
and  headed  for  the  Eau  bar.  On  the  very  spot 
where  we  had  lain  so  long  were  curlew  standing, 
while  above  them  hovered  fluttering  hordes;  and 
on-coming  flocks  were  visible  stringing  far  out  over 
the  lake.  In  time  they  all  pitched  and  formed  a 
grand  army  of  curlew,  such  as  we  had  never 
dreamed  of  seeing.  Could  guns  have  been  hidden 
within  range  of  them,  and  four  barrels  emptied  in 
the  mass  as  the  birds  rose,  a  world's  record  for  cur- 
lew would  surely  have  resulted.  We  could  do 
naught  but  look,  and  look  hard,  which  we  did  while 
thinking  unutterable  things. 

"  By  all  the  confounded  luck  that  ever  two  duffers 
endured,  why  didrit  we  stop  there  an  hour  longer? " 
asked  Larry.  "  Why,  great  Caesar !  we'd  have 
downed  a  hundred  at  least,  if  —  "  I  interrupted  him 


Beacb  Combers  67 

by  speaking  very  crisply  to  the  horse,  and  we  sped 
away.  The  near  wheel  bumped  savagely  over  some- 
thing ere  we  had  covered  ten  yards.  What  that 
something  was  I  did  not  care,  nor  did  I  look  to  see, 
but  I  fancy  it  must  have  been  Larry's  terrible  —  the 
always  terrible  "  If." 


'Tis  a  far  cry  from  end  to  end  of  our  river.  Start- 
ing in  a  birch  canoe  from  where  the  young  stream 
first  gathers  volume  to  float  that  dainty  craft,  one 
may  cruise  for  more  than  two  hundred  miles  before 
sighting  the  broad  lake  into  which  our  river  flows ; 
and  while  yet  a  dozen  leagues  from  the  lake,  one 
will  find  the  erstwhile  puny  stream  to  change  into 
a  goodly  waterway.  Here  it  is  a  fair  rifle-shot  from 
bank  to  bank,  while  beneath  the  canoe  lie  twenty 
feet  of  cool,  green  glooms. 

Perhaps  few  have  gazed  into  the  cradle  of  this 
river.  Far  inland,  where  the  rock  crops  out  upon 
the  rounded  hills,  spreads  a  long  side-slope  close- 
grazed  by  nibbling  sheep.  At  the  foot  of  this  slope 
rises  an  abrupt  wall  of  clay,  riprapped  by  nature 
with  round  white  boulders.  Above  the  wall  roll 
long  waves  of  ancient  forest,  their  green  surf  swing- 
ing to  and  fro  along  their  airy  caast-line.  Near  one 
end  of  the  wall  and  screened  by  spreading  branches 
is  a  shallow  pool.  A  glance  at  it  will  detect  traces 

68 


A  Bit  of  River  69 

of  man's  labor,  for  a  damp  spot  has  been  shaped 
into  a  reservoir  for  benefit  of  thirsty  beasts. 

All  above  this  pool  seems  dusty  dry,  yet  a  keen 
eye  can  detect  a  tiny  white  furrow  extending  from 
the  pool  to  a  clump  of  willows  at  the  end  of  the 
wall.  Does  anything  other  than  surface  water  ever 
fill  this  furrow  ?  Ask  those  five  points  of  flame 
which  mark  the  furrow's  course ;  the  cardinal  flower 
knows  the  secret  of  the  stream.  Follow  the  furrow 
to  where  it  enters  the  willows,  part  their  tangled 
fronds  and  —  Flip-flap  !  whew-ee-ee-ew ! 

A  woodcock.  Always  one  woodcock  here  — 
never  more.  Shoot  him,  and  you  may  knock  over 
his  double  at  every  subsequent  visit,  though  there 
does  not  appear  to  be  another  suitable  haunt  within 
two  miles.  Why  he  never  has  a  wife  to  share  his 
retreat,  or  a  friend  to  visit  him,  nobody  knows. 

Here,  in  the  centre  of  the  willows,  lies  a  yard- 
wide  basin  of  moist  black  loam,  which  never  is 
drier  than  you  see  it.  In  the  spring  it  broadens  to 
a  pool,  which  at  midsummer,  may  have  shrunk  to  a 
mere  damp  spot ;  yet  it  never  actually  dries.  August's 
sun  may  curl  the  willow  leaves  and  sear  the  hillside 
grasses,  but  this  spot  under  its  leafy  dome  ever 
maintains  its  cool  moisture.  White  splashes  all 
over  it  and  innumerable  holes  bored  in  its  plastic 
surface  prove  the  woodcock's  presence,  for  which 
there  is  good  reason.  If  you  wanted  bait  when  it 
was  scarce  elsewhere,  and  turned  up  one  spadeful 
of  that  black  stuff,  I'd  warrant  you'd  find  worms 
a-plenty.  The  big-eyed  woodcock  knows. 

Nor  does  the  friendly  care  of  the  willows  above 
keep  the  spot  moist.  Yonder  a  tuft  of  fern  and  a 


yo  Sporting  Sketches 

clump  of  dock  leaves  conceal  a  willow  root.  Put  a 
hand  under  that  root  —  startlingly  cold  in  there,  is  it 
not  ?  Under  the  root  is  a  wee  cavern  no  larger  than 
the  crown  of  your  hat,  its  bottom  the  whitest,  finest 
sand.  If  you  wanted  a  drink  and  had  the  hollow 
stem  of  a  weed,  you  might  suck  up  your  fill  of  the 
purest  water ;  nor  would  there  be  danger  of  exhaust- 
ing the  tap,  for  in  that  tiny  cavern  is  born  our  big 
river.  Farther  it  does  not  extend ;  all  above  is 
bone-dry. 

How  may  one  know  this  trifling  cavern  to  be  the 
source  of  a  river  ?  Easily  enough.  Our  baby  stream 
surely  is  born  here,  but  he  is  somewhat  of  an  im- 
provement upon  the  ordinary  run  of  babies,  inas- 
much as  he  is  very  silent  and  retiring.  From  this, 
his  parent  pool,  he  slyly  creeps  through  an  under- 
ground crevice  to  the  riprap  of  the  wall.  Crawl 
along  the  wall,  put  an  ear  to  the  boulders,  and  you 
will  hear  him  gurgling  and  whispering  over  his 
hidden  play.  He  seems  to  be  having  rare  fun  in 
there,  for  the  only  sound  he  makes  is  like  the  ghost 
of  a  laugh.  By  ear  you  may  trace  him  to  the  end 
of  the  wall. 

Here  in  the  sunlight  smiles  a  larger  pool,  perhaps 
two  feet  across,  and  a  trout  pool  in  miniature.  The 
rock  ledges  about  it  are  some  six  inches  high ;  the 
green  growths  stand  a  foot  or  more ;  the  rock  boul- 
ders are  marble-like  in  size;  the  fall  at  the  outlet 
might  measure  one  inch,  yet  you  see  everything 
which  lends  the  charm  to  the  big  trout  pool  one 
hundred  miles  below.  The  tiny  fall  has  its  whis- 
per of  song,  its  trace  of  snowy- foam.  If  we  could 
magnify  one  hundred  times  and  in  true  proportion 


A  Bit  of  River  71 

ever}'  feature  of  this  absurdly  small  scene,  we  should 
behold  something  very  like  the  great  forest-bordered, 
rock-ribbed  pool  so  many  miles  away.  Then  our 
gallon  or  so  of  amber  water  would  be  a  darkly  deep 
expanse,  our  insignificant  green  stuff  stately  trees, 
our  wee  ledges  and  marble  boulders  picturesque 
shelves  and  time-worn  masses,  our  whimpering 
over-trickle  a  roaring  cascade,  with  tumults  of  shift- 
ing spume  and  streamers  of  glittering  bubbles.  The 
small  pool  and  the  great  have  been  formed  by  the 
same  means  and  in  the  same  way.  Could  we 
so  place  ourselves  so  as  to  be  able  to  scrutinize 
the  larger  pool  through  a  powerful  glass,  re- 
versed, the  picture  so  reduced  would  be  this  first 
pool  where  the  baby  river  steals  forth  to  brave  the 
sun. 

From  this  pool  our  river's  erratic  course  is  plainly 
defined.  First,  a  thin  line  of  green  amid  sun-browned 
slopes ;  lower  down,  twin  green  lines,  farther  and 
farther  apart,  till  they  reveal  flashes  of  water  be- 
tween ;  a  bulrush  here,  a  willow  there,  with  docks 
and  lush  growths  thick  below,  till  a  foot-broad  stream 
curves  into  the  kindly  shadow  of  the  woods.  Hidden 
springs  have  feebly  aided  our  river  across  the  sunny 
open,  and  at  the  edge  of  the  woods  a  sturdier  ally 
joins  the  onward  march.  From  under  the  mossy 
roots  of  a  giant  maple  rises  a  purl  of  liquid  melody, 
and  immediately  below  our  river  welcomes  his  first 
important  tributary.  At  their  confluence  is  a  quite 
imposing  pool,  fully  as  broad  as  a  foot-bath  and  at 
least  six  inches  deep. 

The  old  water-spider  finds  her  trip  from  shore  to 
shore  to  be  something  of  a  journey,  and  she  narrowly 


72  Sporting  Sketches 

escapes  beingdrawn  into  thewrathful  six-inch  cascade 
below.  Let  us  turn  over  a  pebble,  half  buried  in  the 
damp  mould,  and  see  if  there  be  not  a  red,  hairlike 
worm  under.  He  is  in  the  stuff  sticking  to  the  stone. 
Now  let  us  drop  him  into  the  pool  —  it's  a  trifle 
rough  on  the  worm,  but  the  true  quest  for  knowl- 
edge knoweth  not  conscience.  Did  you  see  it- 
that  small  point  of  light  which  seemed  to  flash  from 
nowhere  in  particular  and  to  lose  itself  —  and  the 
worm  —  in  some  mysterious  fashion  ?  Now  is  our 
river  indeed  a  living  stream,  for  that  tiny  flashing 
thing  was  a  trout.  An  inch-long,  fairy  fry  was  he, 
but  a  trout  for  all  that,  with  his  full  share  of  the 
headlong  dash  and  courage  of  his  noble  race.  Can 
he  be  taken  ?  Nay !  we  could  not  find  him  in  a 
day's  careful  search,  and  such  elusive  morsels  are 
not  to  be  grasped  by  hand.  Hook  him  we  could 
not,  for  while  he  might  bunt  at  a  bait,  the  hook 
is  not  made  for  those  microscopic  jaws. 

From  here  our  river  must  journey  on  alone.  We 
have  seen  its  birth  and  a  something  of  earlier  growth, 
and  we  shall  again  see  it  one  hundred  miles  to  the 
westward.  It  will  traverse  this  winding  corridor  of 
greenery  where  the  tanager  and  the  cardinal  flower 
glow  like  guiding  lights ;  where  the  water-thrush 
rocks  like  a  toy  mandarin  upon  mossy  boulders; 
where  the  sly  mink  prowls  from  pool  to  pool ;  where 
the  laugh  of  the  crested  flycatcher  and  the  wail  of 
his  lesser  relative  help  to  drown  the  hum  of  wild 
bees  and  the  summer  drone  of  insects  innumerable. 
At  the  farther  side  of  the  wood  sings  another  tribu- 
tary stream,  and  our  river  glides  on  and  on,  gaining 
volume  from  many  sources  as  it  goes,  till  at  last  it 


A  Bit  of  River  73 

plunges,  shouting  in  reckless  power,  into  the  great 
trout  pool. 

Thus  far  it  bears  itself  as  the  strong,  riotous  child 
of  rocks  and  hills,  but  not  far  below  the  great  pool 
its  character  changes.  Left  behind  are  the  pomps 
and  vanities  of  rollicking  falls,  gemlike  bubbles,  and 
foamy  wreaths.  Left  behind,  too,  are  the  rocks  and 
sudden  steeps  which  tempt  a  woodland  stream  to 
daring  plunges  and  merry  racings.  Henceforth  its 
course  winds  through  fat  lowlands,  mighty  forests, 
and  broad  clearings ;  thence  through  leagues  of 
fens  and  marshes,  till  at  last  our  river,  now  slow, 
deep,  and  wide,  finds  its  long-sought  lake. 

When  it  left  the  rock  lands  —  the  region  of  ever- 
green-clad slopes  and  maple-filled  intervales  —  the 
river  bade  farewell  to  its  trout.  No  jewelled  aristo- 
crat could  tolerate  the  long,  lazy  reaches  of  almost 
currentless  water,  the  weedy  margins,  the  slopes  of 
clay,  down  which  every  summer  shower  sends  yellow 
cascades  to  stain  the  languid  flood  for  hours  after. 
The  trout  reigns  in  the  upper  waters,  where  the  cold 
springs  pump  unceasingly,  where  the  water  knows 
no  rest,  where  new-born  insects  try  their  wings  and 
clumsy  larvae  slip  and  fall  from  lofty  twigs.  There, 
like  ancient  robber  of  the  Rhine,  Sir  Trout  holds  his 
own  by  prowess  and  lives  by  the  right  of  might. 

In  the  lower  river  are  many  fishes  —  so  many  that 
the  absence  of  the  trout  does  not  greatly  matter. 
The  deep  placid  water  suits  numerous  species  which 
never  seek  the  upper  stream  except  to  spawn,  and 
even  then  never  penetrate  to  the  haunts  of  the  trout. 
Any  angler  of  the  lower  river  will  tell  you  that  it 
is  not  all,  or  one-half,  of  fishing  to  take  trout.  He 


74  Sporting  Sketches 

has  muskallonge,  wall-eyed  pike,  pickerel,  several 
species  of  bass,  mullet,  carp,  perch,  drum,  dogfish, 
catfish,  garpike,  and  others  for  his  special  amuse- 
ment. Of  these  he  takes  great  strings  and  enjoys 
greater  fun,  for  he  is  the  true  angler.  He  may  or 
may  not  take  bass  with  the  fly.  He  can  do  it,  if  so 
inclined,  for  he  knows  fishing  from  gill  to  caudal. 
He  is  wise  in  the  matter  of  baits,  and  has  as  many 
as  the  trout  fisher  has  flies.  He  knows  where,  when, 
and  how  to  take  one  and  all  of  his  prizes ;  how  to 
keep  in  condition  the  fattest  minnows ;  how  to  coax 
worms  to  the  surface  during  hot,  dry  nights ;  how 
to  secure  the  crayfish,  the  bee-larvae,  the  white  grubs 
from  sod  or  rotting  logs;  how  to  best  use  the  small 
frog,  young  mouse,  grasshopper,  cricket  —  in  fine, 
how  to  use  everything  capable  of  tempting  a  fish. 
He  also  knows  exactly  what  to  do  with  tempted  fish. 
These  bait  fishers  are  apt  to  be  the  shrewdest 
students  of  fish-lore,  for  to  be  successful  one  needs 
must  be  well  informed.  While  the  trout  fisher  exer- 
cises much  skill  both  in  casting  his  lures  and  play- 
ing his  fish,  yet  he  has  comparatively  few  details  to 
master.  Once  he  has  learned  how  to  use  his  tackle 
and  to  recognize  good  trout  water,  he  is  upon  the 
highway,  or  waterway,  to  success,  for  he  is  after  but 
one  variety  of  quarry.  The  impetuous  dash  of  the 
trout  also  simplifies  matters.  With  the  bait  fisher 
conditions  are  very  different.  He  may  be  intent 
upon  the  capture  of  specimens  of  half-a-dozen 
species  which  differ  in  habits,  haunts,  and  food. 
During  one  day  he  may  be  compelled  to  employ 
several  distinct  methods  and  many  varieties  of  bait, 
and  be  it  known  that  an  intelligent  use  of  bait 


A  Bit  of  River  75 

demands  as  much  skill  and  vastly  greater  all-round 
knowledge  than  does  fly-fishing.  This,  to  some,  may 
appear  rank  heresy,  yet  it  is  true. 

Of  course,  in  this  class  of  expert  bait  fishers  are 
not  included  those  cheerful  idiots  who  select  a  spot 
because  it  is  shady,  or  offers  a  comfortable  seat, 
then  plop  in  the  bait,  set  the  pole  in  a  crotched  sup- 
port, and  perhaps  read,  while  waiting  for  something 
to  happen.  That,  beyond  question,  is  still-fishing, 
also  beautifully  restful.  A  comical  feature  of  it  is 
that  every  now  and  then  it  proves  partially  success- 
ful, for  even  a  duffer  may  blunder  upon  the  proper 
spot  at  the  right  time,  while  almost  any  one  knows 
enough  to  heave  upon  a  fish-pole  when  the  signs 
say  that  something  has  managed  to  hook  itself ! 

The  real  bait  fisher,  however,  would  scorn  so 
lubberly  a  method,  and  by  bait  fisher  is  meant  the 
man  who  fishes  the  river,  instead  of  some  six  square 
yards  of  it.  He  knows  every  bit  of  good  water  for 
miles,  where  to  expect  each  species  of  fish,  what 
baits  to  use  and  when,  and  what  to  change  to  should 
a  sort  usually  tempting  happen  to  fail.  His  method 
somewhat  resembles  the  fly-fisher's,  for  he  keeps 
moving  from  one  promising  spot  to  another,  and  if 
any  one  catches  fish,  he  is  apt  to  be  the  guilty  party. 
And  this  sort  of  fishing  is  the  more  interesting  be- 
cause it  affords  both  variety  and  full  scope  for  the 
exercise  of  one's  craft,  for  it  calls  for  something  of 
the  observation  and  resourceful  skill  of  the  still- 
hunter,  rather  than  the  putty-like  patience  of  the 
ordinary  still-fisher.  Among  the  experts  of  our 
river  are  past  masters  of  this  branch  of  the  gentle  art. 

The  great  charm  of  our  river,  however,  does  not 


76  Sporting  Sketches 

of  necessity  have  scales  on  it.  While  fish  certainly 
have  much  to  do  with  the  pleasures  of  fishing,  still 
the  surroundings  are  important  factors  in  rounding 
out  the  charm  of  a  day's  sport.  A  glance  at  a  three- 
mile  stretch  of  the  river  should  give  an  idea  of  the 
typical  surroundings. 

At  the  starting-point  the  stream  is  eighty  yards 
wide  and  about  twenty  feet  deep.  Near  either  bank 
extends  a  bronzy-green  mat  of  trailing  growths, 
grasses,  lily-pads,  with  here  and  there  small  belts 
of  rushes  and  reeds.  Owing  to  the  level  country, 
the  river's  course  is  very  erratic,  and  if  we  follow 
one  bank,  we  find  a  shallow  and  a  deep  channel 
alternating  at  every  bend.  One  side  filling  up,  the 
opposite  cutting  away,  is  the  rule,  and  the  graybeards 
know  that  at  many  points  the  river  once  ran  one 
hundred  or  more  yards  from  its  present  bed.  Many 
a  noble  tree  has  been  undermined  and  swept  away 
when  the  spring  floods  came  down. 

The  banks  vary  at  every  bend.  At  one  they  are 
almost  sand-flats ;  at  another,  easy,  well-wooded 
slopes;  at  yet  another,  soft  curves  of  richest  green, 
swelling  up  to  the  farms  above,  and  next  to  these 
are  miniature  cliffs  of  yellow,  sandy  clay.  Not 
seldom  two  of  these  types  are  opposed,  especially 
the  low  flat  and  the  cliff-like  formations,  which  prove 
how  the  river  deposits  and  cuts  away.  The  vegeta- 
tion presents  a  rich  variety.  Here  towers  a  mighty 
sycamore,  its  grand  trunk  sheathed  in  silver  mail, 
its  strong  arms  stretching  far  to  slender  twigs,  from 
which  the  oriole  swings  his  hammock.  In  vain 
does  the  bare-footed  urchin  longingly  eye  that 
treasure  pouch  —  the  glistening  bark  is  treacherous, 


A  Bit  of  River  77 

the  river  waits  below.  For  how  long  has  that  grand 
old  tree  remained  on  guard  ?  Older  than  the  civ- 
ilization it  overlooks,  the  tooth  of  time  has  bitten 
deeply  into  its  upper  trunk.  The  wolf  has  howled 
at  its  foot  when  the  sand  bore  fresh  imprint  of  the 
deer's  dainty  tread.  The  canoe  of  the  savage  has 
drifted  beneath  those  limbs  and  startled  the  wild 
turkey  from  its  lofty  roost,  yet  the  old  tree  stands 
firm.  Now  the  red-headed  woodpecker  bores 
where  the  sap  has  ceased  to  flow,  the  purple  martin 
and  white-bellied  swallow  wheel  at  will  about  the 
round  black  holes,  and  flocking  grackles  rest  awhile 
before  the  last  long  flight  to  the  distant  marsh- 
lands. Year  after  year  one  hundred  fledglings  have 
loved  this  tree  as  home. 

The  sycamore  has  goodly  company.  Broad, 
leafy  basswoods,  far-reaching  Norway  maples,  pale- 
tinted  butternuts,  rich-wooded  walnuts,  rough  chest- 
nuts, shivering  willows,  dark-looking  mulberries  and 
elms,  shapely  maples  and  oaks,  are  ranged  in  stately 
columns.  Below  them  crowd  alders  and  ferny 
sumachs,  among  which  blaze  the  golden  stars,  dear 
to  country  maids.  In  places,  too,  the  vines  run 
riot.  The  creeper  trails  its  graceful  length  from 
many  a  limb,  the  wild  grape's  tough  rigging  stays 
a  hundred  living  masts,  and  the  clematis  bursts  its 
smoky  balls  till  they  hide  the  bushes  in  hazy  clouds. 

Well  do  the  birds  and  small  beasts  love  such 
sanctuary.  The  morning  chorus  swells  with  the 
voices  of  many  species.  The  kingfisher  rouses  his 
rattle  and  drops  like  a  plummet  upon  his  prey. 
The  flicker  enjoys  his  airy  canter  from  trunk  to 
trunk  and  shouts  his  lusty  challenge  to  following 


78  Sporting  Sketches 

friends.  The  sandpiper  curves  outward  from  his 
strip  of  beach  while  his  trembling  pinions  seem  to 
shake  from  them  his  sadly  sweet  refrain  of  weet-weet- 
weet-how-sweet.  Big  grackles,  with  tails  awry,  cluck 
gruffly  in  homeward  flight,  or,  perching,  raise  shoul- 
ders and  rasp  out  their  metallic  greetings.  Where 
the  willow's  rotting  stub  has  shrunk  turtle-like 
within  its  outer  shell,  the  dainty  wood-duck  hides 
her  ivory  treasures  till  downy  fluffs  of  wild  life  are 
ready  to  be  carried  to  the  kindly  stream.  Sedate 
old  robins  bounce  across  the  green  and  shape  their 
cottage  mud-walls  so  near  the  path  that  the  prowling 
urchin  scorns  to  harry  such  easy  treasure.  At  dusk 
and  dawn,  from  highest  twigs,  the  thrasher  fills  the 
air  with  difficult  passages  from  bird  classics,  while 
from  the  scrub  below,  his  slaty  cousin,  the  catbird, 
flirts  his  nervous  tail  as  he  mocks  the  feathered  star 
above,  or  renders  an  original  selection  to  prove  that 
he,  too,  is  worthy  the  name  of  minstrel. 

Above,  where  the  hay-fields  warm  in  yellow  sun- 
shine, the  bobolink  loiters  on  ebon  wing,  while  his 
tinkling  cascade  of  liquid  notes  need  but  a  slight 
effort  of  fancy  to  be  transposed  into  a  silver  tribu- 
tary of  the  river.  Under  the  denser  growths,  the 
towhee  scratches  among  the  dying  leaves,  while 
now  and  then  a  note,  fuller,  richer,  than  all,  floats 
up  from  nowhere  —  as  though  the  spirit-hand  of 
some  great  master  had  touched  again  his  sweetest 
chord.  That  rare  brown  poet,  with  spangled  breast 
and  soft  dark  eye,  speaks  from  velvet  shade  straight 
to  the  heart.  Only  the  wood-thrush  has  mastered 
the  witchery  of  musical  brevity.  " 

There  are  many  others.    The  caress-like  pleading 


A  Bit  of  River  79 

of  the  bluebird,  the  sharp,  insistent  exclamation  of 
the  yellow  warbler,  the  cheer-cheer,  or  cadenced 
fluting  of  the  redwing,  the  low  contralto  of  the 
cuckoo,  the  exquisite,  though  sorrowful  plaint  of  the 
dove,  the  well-beloved  tinkle  of  the  song-sparrow, 
the  better-rounded  effort  of  his  gifted  cousin,  the 
white-throat,  the  hiss  of  the  cowbird  —  these  do  not 
exhaust  the  list  of  performers,  but  are  they  not 
enough  to  entitle  our  river  to  rank  as  a  river  of 
song  ? 

The  banks,  as  banks  should,  hold  treasures. 
Where  the  feet  of  cattle  have  printed  the  sand 
flats,  lie  pear-shaped  eggs,  seemingly  twice  too  large 
for  the  sandpiper  which  guards  them.  When  those 
eggs  shall  have  warmed  to  life,  we  may  find  stilt- 
legged,  downy  youngsters,  still  guarded  by  the 
trim,  everlastingly  nodding  mother,  who,  with  all 
her  melodious  pleadings  and  silly  curtseyings,  knows 
quite  enough  to  simulate  lameness  to  tempt  an  in- 
vader. Helplessly  as  she  may  flutter,  and  aimless 
as  her  crippled  efforts  may  appear,  they  always  lead 
away  from  the  sand-matching  young.  Pursue  her, 
and  the  sweet  farce  will  end  the  instant  she  con- 
siders the  young  safe. 

About  cliff-like  banks  hovers  a  cloud  of  martins, 
forever  entering  and  leaving  their  clustered  tunnels. 
Do  they  ever  become  confused  and  enter  the  wrong 
openings  ?  It  is  unlikely.  You,  unless  you  were 
club-confused,  might  be  trusted  to  find  your  own 
house  in  a  row  of  similar  houses.  The  martins  are 
even  more  clever,  for  they  never  hesitate,  look  for  a 
number  or  mark  —  they  simply  fly  straight  home 
and  creep  in  at  the  one  hole  in  the  colander-like 


80  Sporting  Sketches 

arrangement  they  care  anything  about.  Thrust  a 
hand  far  into  a  burrow  and  you  may  feel  the  wee, 
snowy  eggs  softly  bedded  in  goose  feathers  looted 
from  far  and  near.  If  the  bird  be  at  home,  you  may 
feel  her  tiny  mandibles  nibbling  feeble  protest  at 
your  fingertips. 

In  a  quiet  nook  of  a  higher  bank,  where  over- 
hanging sod  and  roots  form  a  generous  eave,  is  a 
larger  burrow,  the  home  of  the  kingfisher.  Never 
mind  about  putting  your  hand  in  there.  In  all 
probability  the  burrow  is  longer  than  your* arm; 
and  if  not,  A  Icy  on  can  bite,  and  she  will  not  hesitate 
over  using  her  fishing-gear  in  an  attempt  to  teach 
you  better  manners. 

At  one  mile-long  reach,  where  the  river,  for  once, 
manages  to  keep  straight,  the  scene  rises  above  ordi- 
nary beauty.  It  presents  a  superb  corridor,  domed 
with  richest  blue,  walled  with  living  green,  and 
floored  with  flawless  crystal.  The  trees  rise  straight 
from  the  water's  edge,  and  only  at  midday  can  the 
sun  strike  fairly  upon  the  waveless  flood.  During 
early  and  later  hours  the  shadow  of  one  mass  of 
trees  stretches  almost,  if  not  quite,  to  the  foot  of 
the  opposite  wall.  This  is  a  paradise  for  vines. 
Creepers,  clematis,  ivy,  and  innumerable  grape-vines 
so  bind  together  trunks  and  branches  that,  in  a 
breeze,  the  whole  sways  like  a  single  growth.  The 
squirrels  revel  in  such  a  magnificently  appointed 
gymnasium.  Long  tight-ropes,  great  swings,  handy 
loops,  and  rings  are  there  for  every  furry  athlete,  and 
they  seldom  are  idle.  Such  balancing,  daring  runs, 
bold  swinging,  and  reckless  leaping  as  go  on  there 
cannot  be  surpassed  outside  a  tropical  forest  where 


A  Bit  of  River  81 

the  gargoyle  of  the  human  athlete,  the  monkey, 
holds  undisputed  sway. 

Nor  does  our  river  lose  its  charm  upon  the  death 
of  the  day.  The  most  brilliant  songsters  may  be- 
come silent,  but  the  night  creatures  are  active  and 
interesting.  If  one  drifts  between  the  darkened 
walls  in  a  canoe  as  the  harvest  moon  peers  across 
misty  fields,  he  will  hear  much  that  is  worth  hear- 
ing. The  leaves  hang  motionless,  wearied  of  all- 
day  dancing.  The  water  spreads  like  oil  into  black, 
uncertain  shadows.  The  trees  upon  one  bank  stand 
like  silhouettes  against  the  growing  light,  while  the 
opposite  foliage  brightens  with  countless  silvery 
flashes. 

From  bank  to  bank  wages  Cicada's  endless  dispute 
over  Katy's  alleged  indiscretion,  interrupted  every 
now  and  then  by  a  bellowing  "  B'ject !  "  from  some 
lawyer  frog  who  fancies  the  prosecution  is  trans- 
gressing. A  long,  hissing  fall,  ending  in  an  ex- 
plosive "  Boo-oom ! "  tells  where  the  night-hawk  is 
playing  in  the  moonlight,  while  his  cousin,  whip- 
poor-will,  sobs  for  satisfaction  from  every  dusky 
point.  High  above,  a  singing  of  wings  betrays  the 
course  of  a  party  of  belated  wood-ducks,  and  a  pair 
of  great  horned  owls  prolong  gruff  throaty  argu- 
ment over  the  affairs  of  the  night.  A  startled  kill- 
deer  makes  musical  protest  against  some  unknown 
intruder ;  a  sandpiper  takes  up  the  case  as  a  family 
matter,  which  rouses  a  sleepy  sparrow,  which,  from 
sheer  force  of  habit,  tinkles  a  thread  of  song  ere 
again  dropping  off. 

A  broad-fanned  gray  heron  questions  another 
ghostly  form  regarding  the  fishing  farther  up,  and 


82  Sporting  Sketches 

a  few  sociable  raccoons  are  holding  a  clam-bake  at 
the  rear  of  a  quiet  cove.  Muskrats  are  busy  trad- 
ing from  port  to  port,  while  some,  more  adventu- 
rous than  their  brethren,  go  gravely  steaming  in 
the  open  and  plough  long,  silvery  furrows  to  dis- 
tant shores.  Fish  are  constantly  leaping,  and  the 
trained  ear  can  detect  the  nervous  upward  shoot 
and  sounding  fall  of  the  flat-bodied  bass,  the  lazy, 
oily  roll  of  the  catfish,  and  the  sharp  strike  of  the 
lance-like  pickerel. 

The  canoe  makes  no  sound  to  interfere  with  one's 
observations;  in  fact,  the  rasp  of  the  Cicada  is  an 
uproar  in  comparison  with  the  velvety  slide  of  the 
silent  craft.  From  start  to  finish  of  the  voyage 
attentive  ears  may  catch  secrets  from  air,  tree,  and 
water,  for  nature  is  forever  tattling  to  those  who 
have  learned  how  to  listen.  Through  all  the  varied 
night  voices  thrills  one  mysterious  note.  The  water 
seems  to  quiver  with  it  —  it  never  varies,  and  it 
apparently  comes  from  directly  under  the  canoe. 
Miles  make  no  difference  to  that  low,  unvarying 
grunt  —  the  endless  drone  of  the  fresh-water  drum. 


TTIfflE   IFHSIfflllKKS-    (DIF 
TIKE     IFDSEE 

IT  may  appear  crude,  this  fishing  of  the  Free,  but 
in  reality  'tis  as  smooth  as  the  favorite  waters,  and 
not  seldom  a  deal  deeper  than  the  casual  observer 
might  suspect.  Because  it  lacks  the  action  and 
tinsel  of  the  so-called  higher  forms  of  the  art,  it 
rarely  receives  attention  from  those  wizards  of  pen 
and  pencil  who  have  made  the  fame  of  the  fly. 

It  is  true  that  its  bare-footed  exponent  might  be 
unable  to  deliver  an  address  upon  the  why  and 
wherefore  of  the  many  curious  things  he  does,  but 
he  catches  fish,  which,  after  all,  is  about  the  limit  of 
the  most  scientific  possibilities.  The  typical  fisher- 
laddie  of  fresh  water  is  a  peculiar  small  chop  with  a 
wise  little  head  crammed  with  all  sorts  of  scrappy 
information.  He  himself  never  could  tell  where  he 
obtained  the  half  of  it,  yet  he  has  it,  and  he  knows 
how  to  use  it. 

It  may  be  he  sees  a  grub  fall  into  the  water,  and  a 
sudden  swirl  suggests  that  some  unknown  fish  took 
that  grub.  There  may  or  may  not  have  been  time 
to  identify  the  grub ;  but  one  thing  is  certain,  — the 
grub  could  not  fly,  hence  it  must  have  tumbled 
from  the  foliage  above.  Our  laddie,  being  a  bare- 
footed, agile  varlet,  can  climb,  or  go  where  he  wills, 
and  presently  he  discovers  a  grub,  the  like  of  which 

83 


84  Sporting  Sketches 

he  never  had  noticed.  Upon  his  hook  and  into  the 
water  where  the  other  fell  it  goes,  and  because  the 
fish  is  lurking  near  by  for  just  such  another  windfall, 
there  presently  is  something  doing. 

"  Got  a  new  bait  for  bass,"  or  whatever  it  is,  says 
the  boy  to  himself,  and  he  searches  for  more  grubs. 

The  fish  of  the  free  folk  in  question  include  the 
large  and  the  small  mouthed  black  bass;  the  rock- 
bass,  or  red-eye ;  the  crappie ;  the  calico-bass ;  the 
sunfish ;  the  white  bass ;  the  yellow  perch ;  the 
pickerel ;  the  wall-eyed  pike  ;  the  sauger ;  the  bull- 
head; the  catfish;  the  drum;  the  dogfish,  or  bow- 
fin,  and  the  garpike. 

The  tackle  of  the  free  folk  must  be  either  the  long 
handline,  or  the  shorter  and  finer  cord  which  is 
attached  to  pole  or  rod.  A  thirty-yard  handline 
would  be  a  very  fair  length,  and  it  appears  to  lie 
naturally  on  a  reel  carved  from  a  portion  of  a  shingle. 
It  is  not  wise  to  merely  wind  a  long  line  upon  a  bit 
of  slim  stick,  for  the  inside  of  the  ball  thus  formed 
retains  moisture  which  soon  rots  the  line  at  the  very 
worst  place,  i.e.  near  the  shore  end.  To  the  other 
end  is  made  fast  the  sinker,  which  must  be  just 
heavy  enough  to  nicely  carry  out  the  line  and  no 
more.  Too  heavy  a  sinker  is  a  clumsy  drag  when 
one  is  pulling  in,  and  it  makes  too  noisy  a  splash 
when  sent  out.  The  ker-chug  of  too  much  sinker 
will  cause  one  of  the  free  folk  fifty  yards  away  to 
turn  his  head  and  grin  derisively,  and,  possibly,  he 
may  sweetly  inquire  why  one  doesn't  tie  a  brick-bat 
to  his  string.  He  himself  would  cut  a  short  length 
of  alder  half  an  inch  in  diameter;  punch  out  the  pith 
till  the  inside  was  clear,  stick  the  little  tube  into  some 


The  Fishing  of  the  Free  Folk  85 

sand,  melt  shot  or  scrap  lead  in  a  big  iron  spoon, 
and  pour  it  into  the  mould.  The  hook  is  a  most 
important  point.  It  must  have  a  well-rounded  curve, 
and  if  the  barb  has  a  twist  to  one  side,  so  much  the 
better.  It  must  have  an  eye.  To  the  free  folk,  the 
eyeless  hook  is  an  invention  of  the  Evil  One,  and  no 
free  fisher  is  blind  to  the  material  advantages  of  an 
eye.  A  hook  having  an  eye  can  instantly  be  made 
fast  as  desired  and  the  entire  shank  be  left  free  for 
bait.  Any  one  who  knows  anything  understands 
that  a  length  of  fat  worm  slid  up  the  shank  is  a  heap 
better  than  string,  knotted  or  wrapped,  so  there  you 
are.  The  sinker  being  at  the  end,  the  hook,  or 
hooks,  must  go  on  above  it ;  so  they  are  attached 
to  foot-long  lengths  cut  from  the  line  and  tied  to  it 
where  wanted.  If  the  lower  hook  hang  a  foot  above 
the  sinker,  and  the  upper  a  couple  of  feet  above  the 
first,  they  will  be  about  right.  Usually,  the  free 
ends  of  the  short  lengths  and  the  line  proper  are 
together  looped  into  a  hard  knot  which  cannot  slip. 
Sometimes,  and  it's  no  bad  way,  a  hard  knot  is  made 
at  the  end  of  the  hook  tackle,  which  is  then  passed 
through  a  single  knot  in  the  line.  This,  once  drawn 
tight,  will  hold  like  a  vise,  yet  may  be  worked  loose 
when  desired  by  a  trifle  of  judicious  picking. 

The  casting  of  this  tackle  is  very  simple.  For 
short  distances  the  line  is  held  just  above  the  upper 
hook  and  tossed  where  wanted.  When  it  is  desira- 
ble to  get  out  a  lot  of  line,  the  same  hold  is  taken 
and  the  sinker  whirled  a  few  times  before  the  cord 
is  released.  Nothing  but  practice  can  teach  just 
how  hard  to  whirl  the  lead,  and  when  to  let  go,  to 
insure  a  long,  smooth  cast  An  experienced  hand 


86  Sporting  Sketches 

frequently  sends  the  line  out  the  first  time  to 
straighten  kinks  and  get  it  wet,  then  recovers  it  hand 
over  hand,  letting  it  fall  upon  itself  in  easy  coils,  then 
baits  and  sends  it  out  for  fish. 

The  rod  or  pole  outfit  is  preferable  for  streams  in 
which  the  water  is  deep  near  the  bank;  indeed, 
many  boys  esteem  it  above  the  handline  for  fishing. 
Because  the  average  boy  cares  little  for,  or  cannot 
afford,  a  fancy  rod,  that  article  need  not  be  dwelt 
upon.  Cheap  jointed  rods  are  a  nuisance,  and 
neither  so  good  nor  so  satisfactory  as  a  springy  cane, 
or  a  trim,  wiry  pole  cut  by  the  fisher's  own  hand. 
The  line  should  be  about  twice  the  length  of  the 
pole.  It  is  best  made  fast  near  the  butt,  then  car- 
ried with  a  few  turns  round  the  pole  to  the  tip,  and 
then  again  made  fast.  Thus  rigged,  a  broken  pole 
does  not  necessarily  mean  lost  tackle,  or  even  a  lost 
fish.  Many  boys  scorn  a  float,  yet  it  is  a  very  useful 
thing.  An  old  cork  split  half  through  is  away  ahead 
of  a  store  float.  It  can  be  attached  or  detached  in 
a  moment,  and  as  easily  shifted  along  the  line ;  it 
costs  nothing,  and  cannot  be  very  well  injured.  The 
sight  of  a  cork  tied  fast  crosswise  of  a  line  is  a  hint 
of  greenness  which  no  free  fisher  will  fail  to  observe. 

The  actual  fishing  of  the  free  folk  is  a  thing 
so  subtle,  yet  comprehensive,  so  broad,  yet  full  of 
detail,  that  it  is  not  to  be  speared  offhand  by  a 
smooth-nibbed  pen,  nor  marshalled  into  serried  col- 
umns of  hard-featured  type.  It  is,  however,  possible 
to  follow  even  an  active  boy's  erratic  trail  for  a  few 
miles,  so  let  us  attempt  the  task. 

It  is  a  flawless  morning,  and^the  air  is  rich  with 
the  magical  sweetness  of  the  spring.  In  garden, 


The  Fishing  of  the  Free  Folk  87 

copse,  and  wood  everything  is  thrilling  with  new  life 
and  song. 

It  isn't  altogether  laziness  which  keeps  me  daw- 
dling over  breakfast  till  the  clock  marks  half-past 
eight.  Too  much  hurry  is  a  serious  sin,  especially 
in  connection  with  fishing.  It  is  all  very  fine  for 
some  folk  to  prate  about  "  gray-dawn  starts "  and 
unholy  things  of  that  kind ;  but  the  fact  is,  one  sel- 
dom takes  any  fish  worth  taking  very  early  in  the 
day.  My  experience  goes  to  show  that  from  about 
ten  till  noon,  and  from  about  four  till  sunset,  are  the 
best  hours  of  the  twenty-four  for  the  sort  of  fishing 
herein  referred  to.  Later  in  the  season  it  might 
be  worth  while  to  get  to  work  soon  after  sunrise ; 
but  that  is  another  matter. 

Because  there  has  been  a  lot  of  recent  digging 
about  the  grounds,  the  big  bait-keg  contains  hun- 
dreds of  fat  worms  well  covered  with  moist  earth,  so 
the  filling  of  the  bait-box  is  a  simple  matter.  But, 
all  unsuspected,  there  is  an  ordeal  to  be  passed. 
Crouched  at  the  gate,  his  quivering  nostrils  emitting 
a  thin,  wiry  whining,  is  Don.  His  lemon  head  and 
snow-white  body  tell  of  the  stout  old  pointer  blood, 
while  his  strategic  position  indicates  a  thorough 
knowledge  of  what  is  in  the  wind.  He  has  been 
ready  for  hours,  and  he  wants  to  go.  Upon  the 
dining-room  table  stands  a  good-sized  basket,  and 
beside  it,  as  keen  and  watchful  as  Don,  stands  a 
trim,  girlish  figure.  Evidently  she  too  wants  to  go, 
and,  according  to  her  custom,  she  has  got  ready 
before  asking,  and  baited  up  the  lunch-basket  in  a 
deadly  way. 

It  is  contrary  to  law  that  both  girl  and  dog  go, 


88  Sporting  Sketches 

and  they  know  it.  Because  no  living  mortal  pos- 
sibly can  fish  and  keep  track  of  a  well-trained  dog 
and  a  half-broke  girl  at  the  same  time,  he  wisely 
leaves  one  or  the  other  at  home.  Neither  means 
to  do  anything  wrong,  but  they  invariably  play  the 
mischief  when  they  get  out  together.  It  is  true 
that  the  dog  never  would  think  of  spitting  on  a 
stick  and  throwing  it  for  the  girl  to  fetch,  nor  would 
he  say:  "Come  to  me,  you  poor  thing.  I'll  love 
you  when  your  nasty  boss  is  cross  with  you.  You 
may  run  and  splash  as  much  as  you  have  a  mind 
to."  To  be  candid,  I  think  the  dog  would  be  all 
right,  but  then  there's  the  lunch-basket.  The  up- 
shot of  the  matter  is  that  the  dog  receives  a  crisp 
order  which  causes  him  to  tuck  his  tail  and  slink  to 
the  back  premises,  where  he  will  sulk  and  hate  the 
girl  for  at  least  twenty  minutes.  He  will  make  no 
attempt  at  sneaking  after.  He  knows  better  than 
that.  But  he  will  sit  outside  the  gate  and  gaze  far 
up  the  road  from  midafternoon  until  he  sees  two 
distant  figures  emerge  from  the  tangle  of  a  hedge. 

But  to  the  fishing.  Because  the  ancient  order  of 
things  was  that  all  females  should  do  all  the  uninter- 
esting work,  because  the  girl  has  filled  the  basket, 
and  because  she's  duffer  enough  to  stand  for  it,  I 
just  let  her  carry  it.  This  glorious  privilege  is  fairly 
jumped  at.  She'd  gladly  carry  the  two  rods  as 
well,  but  they  are  not  like  lunch.  They  are  man's 
tackle,  and  only  the  lordly  masculine  paw  under- 
stands just  how  they  should  be  clutched.  It  is  the 
same  with  the  bait-box.  No  self-respecting  bait- 
box  ever  would  stay  shut  in  any  but  a  masculine 
pocket.  In  a  skirt-pocket,  it  just  opens  and  lets 


The  Fishing  of  tbe  Free  Folk  89 

loose  the  worms.  Why,  I  don't  know,  but  sooner 
or  later  those  worms  will  get  loose,  and  you'll  hear 
about  every  single  worm.  So  far  as  I  know,  only 
women,  mice,  bumble-bees,  and  those  small,  jumpy 
grass-frogs  thoroughly  understand  the  mysteries  of 
a  girl's  short  skirts.  It  is  sad,  but  so. 

Where  a  couple  of  ancient  bars  mark  the  faintly 
defined  path,  we  leave  the  road  and  pass  between 
twin  snarls  of  briers  and  saplings  down  to  the  river 
bank.  At  the  end  of  the  path  is  a  goodly  cove, 
deep  and  still  dug  by  the  chafing  current,  which,  two 
springs  ago,  undermined  the  stately  basswood  which 
now  lies,  hugely  heavy  and  dark,  in  its  cool,  green 
tomb.  A  black,  well-like  hole  shows  between  the 
rotting  roots  and  their  old  anchorage,  and  the  unerr- 
ing instinct  of  the  free  folk  tells  me  'tis  a  likely  spot 
for  a  swart  rock-bass  or  an  overgrown  "  sunny." 

The  girl  meekly  places  the  basket  upon  the 
ground,  and  I  make  ready  the  rods.  The  lighter 
and  shorter  one  is  rudely  ornamented  with  long 
spirals  and  stars  cut  in  the  smooth  bark.  Either  I 
was  in  an  unusually  kindly  mood,  or  I  had  just  com- 
pleted a  shrewd  dicker  for  a  new  knife  when  I  took 
all  that  trouble.  "  Bait  up !  "  I  order,  with  the  curt 
savageness  of  a  chief  of  the  free  folk;  but  the  sole 
response  is  an  appealing  glance  from  the  big  fawn- 
like  eyes.  "  Dern  a  girl,  anyhow,"  I  mutter  as  I 
rapidly  loop  on  a  couple  of  pretty  fair  worms,  after 
sagely  picking  over  some  much  better  ones  which 
surely  will  go  on  the  other  hook.  The  girl  makes 
no  comment  —  she  couldn't,  for  her  mouth  is  all 
pursed  up,  and  she  is  working  her  jaws  like  a  rabbit 
chewing  a  short  straw. 


90  Sporting  Sketches 

"  Here's  your  old  bait  —  now  spit  on  it  for  luck  — 
spit  straight,  or  you  won't  catch  nothin' !  "  I  sternly 
command,  and  she  gives  a  little  shudder  and  strives 
to  obey.  None  of  them  ever  does  it  right.  Perhaps 
she's  afraid  to  hold  the  writhing  worms  near  enough 
to  her  mouth,  or  it  may  be  she  fails  to  comprehend 
the  grave  importance  of  accurate  spitting.  Anyway 
she  don't  half  spit,  which,  to  a  leader  of  the  free 
folk  who,  when  he  had  lost  a  tooth,  could  nail  a 
bumble-bee  at  five  yards'  range,  seems  some- 
thing like  a  crime.  "I  —  I  —  tried  my  best,  and  I 
did  put  a  little  on  one  end,"  she  almost  whimpers; 
but  a  scornful  "  Umph ! "  is  all  the  satisfaction  she 
gets. 

In  a  minute,  more  and  better  worms  are  adorning 
my  own  hook  and  are  artistically  spat  upon.  Then 
the  split-cork  float  is  shifted  just  so,  and  the  bait  is 
noiselessly  dropped  near  the  upstream  side  of  the 
log.  The  cork  has  drifted  barely  a  foot  when  it 
halts  in  a  suspicious  manner,  goes  almost  under,  then 
steadies.  Brown  paws  clinch  upon  the  rod  ;  brows 
lower  to  a  savage  frown,  and  eyes  glare  at  the  cork 
as  though  they  would  set  it  afire.  It  is  an  awful 
moment. 

"  Where'll  I  fish  ?  —  please  tell  me,"  says  a  meek 
voice. 

"  Shut  your  head  —  you'll  scare  him  !  Drop 
your  old  hook-in-hole-right-front,"  I  fairly  hiss,  for 
the  free  folk  don't  like  to  be  bothered  when  there's 
something  doing.  A  solemn  plunk  tells  that  her 
bait  has  gone  somewhere.  But  my  cork  is  nodding 
again.  Tug-tug-plop  !  — under  "it  goes,  and  in  a 
moment  the  pole  bends.  There  is  a  brief  zig-zag 


The  Fishing  of  the  Free  Folk  91 

resistance,  then  a  shiny  thing  whizzes  through  the 
sweet  air  and  hits  the  bank  with  a  sounding  wallop. 
I  spring  tiger-like  upon  the  fish  and  jam  a  nervous 
finger  through  its  gills,  for  it  is,  indeed,  a  mighty 
rock-bass,  nearly  a  foot  long,  and  as  nearly  a  pound 
in  weight.  You  don't  take  more  than  one  such 
rock-bass  in  a  week  so,  naturally,  I  am  jubilant  and 
rather  chesty  as  I  string  him  and  make  him  exceed- 
ingly fast  to  a  handy  root. 

"  That's  the  way  to  snake  a  big  fish ! "  I  proudly 
exclaim  as  I  proceed  to  bait-up.  "  Hank  Jones 
'lowed  he'd  landed  the  boss  rocky  last  week,  but 
his'n  wa'n't  a  minny  'longside  mine.  Why,  a  girl 
could  catch  a  bigger  fish  than  Hank's.  Why,  you 
might  do  it  some  day,  after  you've  learned  the  ABC 
of  it.  You  just  watch  me  and  — " 

The  sentence  has  never  to  my  knowledge 
been  completed.  All  the  girl  said  was,  "  Oh ! 
ah !  ah  !  "  in  queer  little  jerky  gasps ;  but  she  clung 
to  her  carved  pole  and  heaved  like  a  navvy  at  a 
tremendous  something  which  lashed  the  water  into 
suds.  I  distinctly  remember  seeing  her  put  her 
small  shoe  into  six  inches  of  water  and  not  notice  it ; 
also,  that  she  gave  a  final  strong  heave  and  sat 
backward  upon  the  bank,  and  that  an  immense 
bronzy  shape  followed  straight  into  her  lap.  It 
seems  to  me  that  she  spread  her  knees  very  wide 
under  her  skirt,  then  slapped  them  together  and 
folded  her  arms  across,  and  bent  over  as  though  she 
had  a  pain  or  something.  Because  the  free  folk 
don't  wear  skirts,  they  never  try  to  catch  things  in 
their  laps  nor  spread  their  knees.  If  they  had  to 
make  a  try  at  it,  they'd  first  get  their  knees  together, 


92  Sporting  Sketches 

then  grab  with  their  hands.  It's  the  difference  of 
apparel  does  it. 

When  I  come  out  of  my  temporary  trance  I 
notice  three  things.  Two  of  them  are  stockings, 
or,  rather,  liberal  portions  thereof,  while  the  third 
is  a  square  fish-tail,  a  good  deal  broader  than  my 
hand.  It  flaps  a  bit  and  curves  in  a  straining  sort 
of  way;  but  it  might  as  well  take  things  easy,  for 
its  owner  has  about  as  much  chance  as  a  dead  fish 
of  getting  free  from  that  sadly  mussed  frock.  When 
I  finally  get  hold  of  the  prize,  I  hardly  know  whether 
to  feel  mad  or  glad.  It  proves  to  be  a  black-bass, 
so  large  that  I  cut  its  spine  near  the  head  before 
daring  to  trust  it  to  the  string.  The  flush  of  de- 
light upon  the  girl's  face  helps  to  mollify  my  out- 
raged feelings,  but  the  Old  Adam  prompts  me  not 
to  tell  it  is  useless  to  fish  longer  in  that  lucky  hole. 
I  compromise  with  my  sense  of  right  by  really  putting 
on  a  better  bait,  which  is  a  bit  too  late  to  do  any 
good.  She  is  perfectly  satisfied,  and  as  she  watches 
her  idle  float  I  try  other  spots  about  the  tree.  Two 
more  rock-bass  are  soon  taken ;  then  comes  a  brief 
idle  period,  and,  true  to  the  creed  of  the  free  folk, 
I  order  a  change  of  base. 

Because  a  girl's  only  a  girl,  and  somebody  might 
pass  in  a  boat,  I  carry  the  big  bass,  while  she  fags 
along  behind  with  the  two  rods.  She  hasn't  said 
anything  about  her  wet  foot,  but  I  can  hear  her 
steps  go  pat-squiz-pat-squiz  as  she  humbly  follows. 
Some  two  hundred  yards  above,  a  few  snaky-look- 
ing black  roots  mark  another^  fallen  tree.  It  is  a 
very  bassy  spot,  and  immediately  above  lies  a  sandy- 
bottomed  cove,  where  nobody  who  had  any  sense 


The  Fisbing  of  tbe  Free  Folk  93 

ever  would  think  of  fishing  except  with  a  very  long 
handline.  "  Now,  I'll  freshen  up  your  bait  real  nice, 
and  you'll  trot  to  that  clean  sandy  place,  and  mebbe 
you'll  catch  another  big  bass.  I'm  sure  there's  one 
right  there,"  I  calmly  remark.  Good  as  gold  and 
easy  as  a  gudgeon  away  she  goes,  and  I  grin  with 
unholy  glee  as  she  drops  in  her  line  and  stands,  rod 
in  hand,  like  a  pocket  Patience. 

My  bait  is  barely  well  sunk  before  the  cork  goes 
under,  and  in  a  moment  a  fair  rock-bass  is  flip- 
flapping  on  the  bank.  She  smiles  and  nods  her 
little  head,  then  fixes  her  trusting  eyes  upon  her 
float.  In  my  heart  I  feel  it's  a  shame  to  fool  her  so 
—  yet  her  fish  is  very  large  and  fine.  A  couple  of 
rock-bass,  followed  by  a  really  large  "  sunny,"  are 
added  to  my  score ;  then  I  try  farther  out,  and 
presently  hook  a  big  drum.  For  a  moment  he  feels 
like  a  bass,  and  I  gloat,  but  the  flash  of  a  silvery 
side  tells  the  truth.  Half  angrily,  I  yank  him  out, 
twist  free  the  hook,  and,  according  to  the  code, 
mash  his  head  and  secure  the  two  lucky  stones. 
By  the  unwritten  law  of  the  free  folk,  she  is  entitled 
to  one,  so  I  take  it  to  her,  mainly  because  to  neg- 
lect this  would  entail  bad  luck.  She  is  delighted, 
and,  with  due  humility,  she  brings  in  her  hook 
and  asks  me  to  please  look  at  her  bait,  because 
she  knows  how  superior  my  knowledge  is  of  such 
matters.  I  loop  a  worm  afresh  and  return  to  my 
own  water.  Half-a-dozen  tries  only  raise  one  small 
"rocky,"  so  finally  the  hook  is  brought  to  hand, 
given  a  turn  around  the  butt,  and  I  am  ready  for 
another  shift. 

While  untying  the  tethered  fish,  I  hear  a  sudden 


94  Sporting  Sketches 

splash,  and  look  up  to  see  a  wonderful  picture. 
The  slim,  girlish  figure  is  stiffly  braced,  her  hat  is 
hanging  on  her  shoulders,  her  face  is  very  red,  and 
she  is  lifting  for  dear  life.  I  know  the  rod,  and  one 
glance  at  its  curve  tells  how  big  is  the  righting  cap- 
tive. I  hardly  can  believe  my  eyes,  for,  as  I  look, 
a  great,  green  thing  springs  from  the  water  and 
falls  back  amid  a  shower  of  spray.  There  is  barely 
time  to  shout,  "  Stop !  —  you  goose  !  —  play  him  !  " 
before  she  turns  and  runs  up  the  bank,  dragging 
rod,  line,  and  fish  bodily  after  her. 

"  That's  a  dickens  of  a  way  to  play  a  fish ! "  I 
growl  half  savagely  as  I  unhook  the  biggest  bass 
of  the  year. 

"I  —  I  —  don't  —  care  —  I  —  I  —  gottim  —  any- 
how ! "  she  gasps,  and  I  have  to  laugh  in  spite  of 
myself. 

But  the  blood  of  the  free  folk  is  mighty  near  the 
boiling  point,  for  nobody  ever  took  a  bass  in  such  a 
spot,  and  nobody  but  a  chump  of  a  girl  would  try  to. 

"  It's  the  '  lucky '  you  gave  me,"  she  says  softly, 
"and  the  lovely  place  you  let  me  have.  Next  time 
you  must  have  the  good  place." 

Something  in  her  rosy  color  and  shining  eyes 
checks  a  fierce  impulse  to  chuck  her  bodily  into  the 
river,  and  the  angry  pride  of  the  free  folk  humbles 
itself.  At  the  next  good  spot  she  gets  a  fair  chance, 
and  at  this  and  others  small  fish  are  added  to  the 
string.  At  last  she  seats  herself  upon  a  log  and 
remarks :  — 

"  It's  too  lovely  for  anything,  but  we'd  best  eat. 
I've  got  sandwiches  and  pickles,  and,  oh !  let's  cook 
a  fish  —  do  —  please,"  she  says. 


The  Fishing  of  the  Free  Folk  95 

"  All  right !  "  I  reply.  "  S'pos'n'  I  fix  your  big 
bass  and  build  a  fire  and  cook  him  ?  " 

The  big  eyes  are  clouded,  and  she  sighs  softly. 
But  in  a  moment  she  is  again  all  brightness.  She 
nods  merrily  and  says,  "  All  right !  cook  him  if  you 
wish." 

Of  course  I  didn't.  Had  I  caught  that  fish  and 
some  big  duffer  tried  to  cook  it  before  I  got  it  home 
and  displayed  it,  he'd  have  had  to  whip  me  first,  and 
the  free  folk  will  stand  for  their  rights  till  their  fish 
poles  are  worn  down  too  small  for  clubs.  So,  instead 
of  the  prize  fish,  two  small  rockies  are  scaled,  cleaned, 
and  stuck  upon  a  couple  of  stiff  switches. 

"  You  cook  mine.  I  don't  know  how  to  do  it  like 
you,"  she  says  sweetly,  as  she  busies  herself  with  the 
basket.  Ah  !  the  craft  of  it. 

Feed  the  brute !  A  half-dozen  prime  sandwiches 
backed  by  a  fairly  good  rocky  will  bury  jealousy  so 
deep  you  can't  find  it  with  a  skewer.  There  is  a 
bottle  of  tea,  too,  sugared  just  right,  and  the  last  swig 
of  it  floods  the  sandwiches,  the  rocky,  and  my  soul 
with  human  kindness.  We  idle  over  everything ; 
the  birds  sing  cheerily ;  but  at  last  a  sharp  splash 
brings  us  to  alert  attention. 

"  See  the  ring  he  made.  Go  catch  him  —  I'm 
tired,"  she  says ;  and  I  slip  down  the  bank,  for  a 
broadening  ripple  near  a  stump  suggests  that  a  black- 
bass  has  chased  a  minnow.  In  such  a  case  worms 
may,  and  may  not,  score,  and  alas !  I  have  neither 
minnow  nor  minnow-tackle. 

As  feared,  the  worms  prove  unattractive,  but  the 
wisdom  of  the  free  folk  suggests  something  else.  It 
is  too  early  for  grubs,  but  a  crayfish  might  do ;  so  I 


96  Sporting  Sketches 

cautiously  turn  over  some  sunken  trash.  A  little 
nipper  darts  backward  for  deep  water,  followed  by 
an  angry  growl.  She  comes  down,  too,  and  prowls 
along  the  margin,  her  bright  eyes  scanning  every 
possible  bit. 

"  Here,  quick!  under  this  —  see  his  horns!  "  she 
excitedly  whispers,  and  I  steal  a  hand  over  a  bit  of 
bark  and  press  it  down.  Someway  the  crayfish 
wiggles  into  my  hand,  and,  not  having  a  sure  hold, 
I  hastily  sweep  him  ashore.  By  unlucky  chance  he 
lands  upon  his  back  only  a  few  inches  from  the 
water.  Like  a  flash  she  grabs  him  and  promptly 
shrieks,  "  Oh  !  he  bites  —  take  him  off !  " 

A  big  blue  claw  is  savagely  nipping  a  finger,  but 
I  soon  make  it  let  go.  Then  the  finger  goes  into 
her  mouth,  the  hook  goes  into  the  crayfish,  the 
crayfish  into  the  water;  and,  apparently,  into  the 
midst  of  a  bully  bass.  A  great  fight  follows,  but 
when  the  fish  is  flung  far  up  the  bank,  it  proves  a 
pound  lighter  than  her  grand  fellow.  However,  it 
is  a  fine  fish  —  quite  large  enough  to  make  one  of 
the  free  folk  positively  genial. 

The  short  cut  homeward  is  easy ;  but  wonderful 
is  thy  tact,  O  woman !  Just  as  we  reach  the  one 
stage  where  people  can  see  us,  she  suddenly  grows 
too  tired  to  carry  those  fish  one  step  farther. 

Nay,  reader,  it  is  not  false  pride,  nor  anything 
small ;  it  is  bigger  and  broader  than  even  the  liberal 
code  of  the  free  folk,  this  thing  which  suddenly 
causes  the  sore  finger  to  throb  and  the  sturdy  little 
arm  to  lose  power.  It  is  the  stuff  which  later  makes 
the  self-sacrificing  mother;  it  new  prompts  her  to 
surrender  the  prizes,  to  meekly  fall  to  the  rear  with 


The  Fishing  of  the  Free  Folk  97 

the  rods,  while  a  bull-necked  chief  of  the  free  folk 
haughtily  leads  past  houses  and  staring  eyes.  Young 
as  she  is,  the  she  in  her  truly  tells  her  how  dearly 
the  he  in  him  prizes  that  brief  triumphal  march  past. 
And  if  later  the  scales  fall  from  her  eyes,  and,  a  past 
mistress  of  other  angling,  she  makes  him  follow,  as 
he  should,  and  before  a  heap  more  folks,  too,  I'll  not 
blame  her  one  bit. 

"  Don't  you  go  and  tell  about  my  wet  foot,"  she 
hoarsely  whispers  at  the  door.  "  If  you  don't,  I 
won't  get  croupy."  And  lest  any  one  should  get 
away  with  a  wrong  impression,  it's  only  fair  to  say 
that  the  bargain  was  strictly  fulfilled  on  both  sides. 


THERE  was  not  a  trout  in  our  country.  The  region 
of  rock,  tumbling  falls,  and  swift  brooks  ended  miles 
to  the  eastward.  But  we  had  waters  a-plenty,  —  deep, 
calm,  slow-moving  rivers  and  creeks,  which  took  their 
own  time  about  reaching  the  big  lakes  which  half 
surrounded  our  territory.  With  the  exception  of 
the  banks  of  waterways  the  country  had  few  slopes. 
For  miles  one  would  not  find  a  stone.  The  great 
levels  of  fat  land  bore  alternate  growths  of  ancient 
forest  and  bountiful  crops.  It  was  not  a  trout 
country. 

Of  the  old  crowd  of  boys,  who  knew  the  ways  of 
every  beast,  bird,  and  fish  indigenous  to  their  sport- 
ing ground,  possibly  not  one  ever  set  eyes  on  a  trout, 
until  he  had  travelled  considerably  beyond  the  con- 
fines of  his  native  district.  What  the  eye  does  not 
see  the  heart  does  not  crave,  so  we  troubled  ourselves 
not  at  all  about  the  trout. 

Our  waters  teemed  with  other  fish.  There  was 
fishing  in  plenty,  and  good  fishing  at  that,  so,  per- 
haps, after  all  we  were  better  off  "without  the  trout. 
In  a  trout  country,  as  a  general  rule,  one  fishes  for 

98 


Tbe  Fishes  of  our  Bqybood  99 

trout  and  for  nothing  else.  Not  seldom  the  trout 
is  the  only  available  fish;  hence  the  youth  of  that 
region,  while  apt  to  learn  a  lot  about  trout,  remain 
in  ignorance  of  a  dozen  other  species  of  most  inter- 
esting fish. 

In  our  country  things  were  different.  In  order 
to  be  a  successful  angler  and  so  command  the 
respect  of  one's  associates,  one  had  to  know  more 
or  less  about  a  dozen  species  of  fish,  as  many  sorts 
of  baits,  and  also  the  methods  by  which  the  fish 
and  the  baits  might  best  be  brought  into  close  con- 
nections. The  old  boys  knew  about  these  things, 
and  many  other  things  not  to  be  found  in  books. 
They  could  tell  you  when,  where,  and  why  to  try  at 
a  certain  spot  for  some  particular  fish,  and  what 
bait  to  use.  Then  if  you  did  not  take  the  fish, 
they'd  borrow  your  tackle  and  speedily  prove  the 
correctness  of  their  knowledge. 

Those  were  glorious  old  days !  From  sunrise  to 
sunset,  care-free ;  then  nights  of  dreamless  sleep. 
We  were  forever  busy,  on,  in,  or  about  the  water. 
To  rise,  feed,  and  flee  to  the  river ;  back,  feed,  off  to 
the  river,  was  the  daily  programme.  We  knew  every 
foot  of  bank  and  shallow,  and,  for  that  matter,  most 
of  the  depths.  Where  the  turtles  buried  their  eggs, 
when  the  muskallonge  might  be  expected,  when  the 
pickerel  followed  the  overflows  —  in  fact  the  waters 
had  no  secrets.  When  a  new  boy  came,  as  he 
sometimes  did,  with  tales  of  the  trout  fishing  of 
distant  parts,  we  listened  in  mock  humility.  Then 
some  one  of  us  licked  him,  and  if  he  took  that  with 
becoming  knightly  fortitude,  we  later  took  him  fish- 
ing and  so  to  our  gentle  hearts.  If  he  chanced  to 


ioo  Sporting  Sketches 

lick  one  of  us  —  but  come  to  think  of  it,  there  was 
no  provision  in  our  by-laws  for  the  impossible ! 
When  we  took  him  fishing,  he  presently  was  con- 
vinced that  what  he  knew  about  trout  wasn't  a  cir- 
cumstance to  what  we  knew  about  fish. 

And  such  fish  as  they  were!  Strings  upon 
strings  of  captives  large  and  small,  tied  here,  lugged 
kicking  there,  by  happy,  sun-browned,  bare-footed 
boys,  who  found  no  weariness  in  miles  of  wading, 
perching,  prying  along  the  banks  —  stealing  marches 
on  each  other,  using  every  resource  of  knowledge 
and  ready  adaptability  in  order  to  finish  "  high  hook  " 
at  the  close  of  the  day.  The  boys  were  no  minnow 
fishers,  and  few  indeed  were  the  blank  days.  Fine 
fish,  up  to  five  pounds  in  weight,  rewarded  the 
youthful  toilers ;  indeed,  not  seldom  a  few  plump 
bass  stopped  awkward  questions  concerning  truancy 
and  saved  certain  jackets  from  vigorous  dustings. 

As  a  course  before  the  fish,  two  forms  of  life  may 
be  discussed.  Both  were  very  interesting,  the  one 
as  bait,  the  other  as  an  unfathomable  mystery.  The 
bait  was  the  crayfish,  the  miniature  lobster  of  fresh 
water.  Abundant  in  shallow  water  near  the  banks, 
in  creeks,  ditches,  and  certain  bush-ponds,  the  cray- 
fish, at  times,  is  deadly  bait  for  the  basses  and  a 
few  other  species.  The  boys  preferred  crayfish  of 
medium  size,  and  instead  of  spitting  them  crosswise 
upon  the  hook,  as  is  commonly  done,  they  forced 
the  hook  in  at  the  mouth  and  out  through  the  tail. 
So  hooked,  and  allowed  to  sink  quickly,  the  bait 
gives  an  irresistible  imitation  of  the  live  crayfish's 
backward,  wavering  rush  to  shelter.-. 

The  best  thing  for  securing  such  agile  bait  is  a 


The  Fishes  of  our  Boyhood  101 

boy's  deft,  brown  paw.  The  nip  of  the  formidable- 
looking  claws  really  is  a  trifling  matter.  The  cray- 
fish are  found  under  stones  and  sunken  rubbish  near 
the  margins  of  streams,  and  under  sodden  bark  and 
leaves  of  bush-ponds.  Crayfish  burrows,  capped  by 
curious  little  mud-towers,  are  familiar  objects  to 
those  who  go  much  a-field.  When  not  easily  ob- 
tainable elsewhere,  the  crayfish  may  be  taken  from 
its  burrow  by  overturning  the  mud-tower,  lowering 
a  bit  of  flesh  tied  to  a  string  and  jerking  when 
the  sure-to-follow  nibbling  is  felt.  The  boys  also 
"churned  for  'em,"  by  breaking  a  switch  with  a 
ragged  end,  manipulating  this  in  the  burrow  till 
the  outraged  crayfish  took  hold,  then  jerking  him 
from  his  bomb-proof. 

The  creature  referred  to  as  a  mystery  is  what  is 
termed  the  "horse-hair  snake,"  in  reality  a  hair- 
worm. It  is  found  in  all  of  our  waters,  and  it 
greatly  resembles  a  black  hair  from  a  horse's  mane. 
Most  boys  are  willing  to  swear  that  this  hairworm 
really  is  a  horsehair  turned  into  a  snake,  and  many 
grown  persons  will  back  up  the  claim.  People 
have  declared  that  they  have  placed  a  horsehair 
in  a  bottle  of  water,  corked  the  bottle,  and  kept  it 
so  till  the  hair  had  turned  into  a  snake  and  swam 
about.  Science,  however,  accepts  no  such  testi- 
mony. The  truth  is,  the  so-called  "  snake  "  is  a  gor- 
dioid  nematode  worm,  so  named  from  its  structure 
and  characteristic  habit  of  snarling  itself  up.  Its 
first  stage  of  life  is  as  a  parasite,  the  hair-like  form 
representing  the  adult  It  swims  like  a  snake.  It 
may  be  found  in  shallow  water,  perhaps  lying  upon 
the  bottom  like  a  snarl  of  black  thread,  or  smoothly 


io2  Sporting  Sketches 

coiled  like  the  hair-spring  of  a  watch,  or  twisted 
around  a  stem  of  water-grass.  Where  horses  are  in 
the  habit  of  drinking,  genuine  hairs  and  the  hair- 
worms are  sure  to  be  found  in  close  proximity,  and 
this  no  doubt  satisfactorily  accounts  for  the  hair- 
snake  story. 

Among  the  fish,  the  largest  and  most  difficult  to 
capture  was  .the  great  king  of  the  pike  family,  the 
muskallonge.  Just  how  large  these  noble  fellows 
ran  was  an  open  question.  About  forty-five  pounds 
might  have  been  the  limit  for  trolling  with  the 
handline  and  spoon.  Much  heavier  specimens  occa- 
sionally were  speared  or  shot.  Most  of  the  larger 
fish  were  secured  by  spearing  through  the  ice.  The 
heaviest  of  these  might  weigh  from  sixty  to  seventy- 
five  pounds. 

During  late  May  and  early  June  the  muskallonge 
made  their  way  up  the  larger  streams  to  spawn,  two 
fish,  male  and  female,  usually  travelling  together. 
The  old  Leatherstockings  and  the  boys  knew  all 
about  this ;  and  while  ordinary  tackle  was  not  to  be 
depended  upon,  there  were  spears  and  firearms  for 
such  work.  From  gray  dawn  till  an  hour  or  two 
after  sunrise  was  the  best  time,  as  then  the  fish 
were  apt  to  be  swimming  near  shore,  or  playing 
over  the  bars.  Usually  the  first  intimation  of  a 
fish's  approach  was  a  strongly  defined  wake  stretch- 
ing far  upon  the  placid  surface  as  the  huge  fish 
moved  a  few  inches  below.  Then  the  important 
thing  was  to  get  to  a  commanding  point  well  ahead 
of  the  apex  of  that  spear-shaped  wake.  To  accom- 
plish this  without  scaring  the  fisli  was  none  too 
easy,  as  it  frequently  demanded  some  lively  skirmish- 


The  Fishes  of  our  Boyhood  103 

ing  through  brush  and  up  and  down  wooded  banks. 
Sometimes  gunner  or  spearman  would  chase  the 
watery  sign,  losing  and  finding  it  again  and  again 
for  a  couple  of  miles,  and  then  fail  to  get  a  good 
chance  at  the  fish. 

Not  a  few  of  the  old  hands  at  this  work  had 
favorite  points  where  they  would  perch  themselves 
like  overgrown  kingfishers  and  wait  for  fish  to 
pass.  This  method  demanded  much  patience,  and 
it  had  a  disadvantage  in  the  fact  that  fish  might  be 
playing  beyond  the  bends  above  and  below  and  the 
watcher  not  know  it.  As  a  rule,  the  odds  were  in 
favor  of  the  man  who  cautiously  stole  along  the 
bank  and  kept  a  keen  eye  upon  the  water  ahead. 
During  the  best  part  of  a  morning,  he  could  cover 
several  miles  of  stream  and,  perhaps,  have  as  many 
as  three  or  four  chances. 

In  practised  hands  the  long-handled  spear  did 
excellent  service,  but  woe  was  the  portion  of  the 
duffer  who  attempted  to  use  one.  Badly  scared 
fish  and  a  much-astonished  mortal  were  the  almost 
certain  results  of  clumsy  work,  and  fish  once  scared 
seldom  gave  another  chance  that  day.  Many  of 
the  country  lads  used  cheap  rifles,  which  were  all 
right  where  the  opposite  banks  were  sufficiently  high 
to  stop  glancing  balls,  but  still  there  remained  the 
chance  of  a  ball  speeding  somewhere  upon  a  danger- 
ous errand.  A  rifleball  glancing  from  water,  or  an 
unnoticed  trunk,  or  bough,  is  a  peril  to  the  end  of 
its  flight,  because  it  may  strike  creature  or  object  at 
an  apparently  impossible  distance  to  one  side  of  the 
original  line  of  fire.  Knowing  this,  the  fisherman, 
as  every  man  should  be,  was  extremely  careful. 


104  Sporting  Sketches 

A  reliable  shot-gun  is  as  deadly  to  the  fish,  not 
nearly  so  dangerous  in  other  directions,  and  much 
handier  for  quick  work. 

The  pickerel,  little  brother  to  the  muskallonge, 
was  not  held  in  great  esteem.  These  fish  ran  from 
a  pound  to  about  fifteen  pounds  in  weight,  were  full 
of  bones,  and  the  flesh  was  rather  insipid.  When 
the  streams  overflowed  their  banks  in  the  spring, 
the  pickerel  sometimes  invaded  the  lesser  tributa- 
ries and  ditches  in  astonishing  numbers.  Then  the 
short  spears  and  the  guns  were  busy  day  and  night, 
and  great  was  the  fun.  By  the  light  of  torches,  lan- 
terns, and  bonfires  many  large  pickerel  met  their 
fate.  Later  in  the  season,  pickerel  were  taken  by 
troll  and  handline,  by  whipping  with  rod  and  spoon, 
or  other  artificial  lure,  and  by  live  bait,  such  as  the 
"  shiner  "  minnow,  grass  frogs,  and  others. 

An  excellent  fish,  termed  by  the  boys  "  pickerel," 
in  reality  the  wall-eyed  pike,  was  greatly  prized  for 
the  table,  but  could  not  be  depended  upon  for  a 
day's  sport.  There  was  a  heavy  run  about  spring 
freshet  time,  when  tons  of  them  fell  victims  to  the 
seines.  At  that  time,  too,  numbers  were  speared  in 
the  discolored  eddies ;  but  later,  during  the  regular 
season  for  the  rods,  only  one  or  two  would  be  found 
among  a  day's  catch  of  good  fish.  Specimens 
weighing  five  or  six  pounds  were  not  uncommon, 
while  the  seines  took  much  heavier  ones. 

Three  peculiar  fish  were  taken  solely  for  the 
pleasure  of  playing  them,  for  none  of  the  boys  ever 
would  carry  them  home.  Most  abundant  of  these  was 
the  "  sheepshead," — the  fresh-water  drum,  — a  good- 
looking,  silvery  fish,  in  appearance  like  the  more 


The  Fisbes  of  our  Boyhood  105 

valuable  lake  shad.  They  ran  large,  ranging  from 
one  to  ten  pounds,  took  various  baits,  especially 
crayfish  and  worms,  and  fought  fairly  well  upon 
light  tackle.  All  their  upper  parts  were  of  a  pretty, 
silvery  blue,  which  below  shaded  off  to  a  dead 
white,  like  white  kid.  In  the  head  of  this  fish,  also 
in  the  head  of  at  least  one  seafish,  are  two  enamel- 
like  substances.  These,  in  the  drum,  are  roughly 
circular,  flattish,  and  in  large  fish  about  the  size  of 
a  nickel.  These  substances  are  by  the  boys  termed 
"  lucky  stones,"  and  the  boy's  first  business  after 
landing  a  "  sheepshead  "  was  to  crush  its  skull  with 
his  heel,  or  something  as  convenient,  and  extract 
those  two  precious  affairs.  One  or  more  of  them 
lurked  in  every  boy's  pocket,  for  were  they  not 
equal  to  the  famed  rabbit's  foot  of  the  South  ?  No 
boy  cared  to  hook  and  lose  a  sheepshead,  and  none 
would  think  of  casting  away  the  useless  dead  body 
without  first  "  gettin'  his  luckies."  The  "  stones  " 
were  marked  upon  one  side  with  a  design  which  sug- 
gested a  pollard  willow  with  a  badly  bent  trunk,  the 
rough  resemblance  of  this  bent  trunk  to  a  letter  L, 
presumably  being  the  origin  of  the  luck  theory. 

I  have  caught  scores  of  these  fish,  yet  never  tasted 
one,  and  I  have  yet  to  meet  a  white  man  who  has 
eaten  sheepshead.  It  is  believed  that  the  fish  is 
astonishingly  tough  and  flavorless,  requiring  a  power 
of  chewing.  This  may  or  may  not  be  true.  It  cer- 
tainly is  a  fine-looking  fish,  and,  quite  possibly, 
the  boyish  prejudice,  like  many  another,  really  had 
no  sound  foundation.  Occasionally  a  negro  would 
take  home  a  large  specimen,  but  the  majority  of 
the  dusky  Waltonians  declared  the  fish  "pizen  fo' 


io6  Sporting  Sketches 

shuah."  At  certain  points  we  used  to  kill  from 
a  half  dozen  to  twenty  sheepshead  in  a  day,  the  fish 
freely  taking  worms  and  crayfish,  being  so  eager  for 
the  latter  that  not  seldom  a  bait  intended  for  a 
choice  bass  got  into  the  wrong  pew. 

The  second  of  our  odd  fish  was  the  garpike,  as 
a  rule  very  abundant.  This  also  was  declared 
"  pizen,"  and  none  would  taste  of  it.  To  the  boys, 
the  gars  were  "swordfish,"  and  only  good  for  battle. 
A  big  gar,  with  his  round,  tapering  body,  stiletto- 
like  jaws,  sharp  teeth,  and  wicked-looking  eyes,  was 
an  unpromising  customer,  specially  designed  for 
biting.  During  warm  weather  the  gars  floated  at 
the  surface  for  hours,  and  their  trim  lines  suggested 
speed,  power,  and  something  of  relationship  to  ma- 
rine torpedoes.  The  bony  structure  of  their  long, 
lean  jaws  usually  baffled  efforts  at  hooking  them, 
and,  if  hooked,  their  teeth  were  apt  to  cut  anything 
but  gimp.  I  have,  however,  taken  them  with  min- 
nows ;  but,  contrary  to  appearances,  they  afford  but 
poor  play.  A  specimen  a  yard  long  would  be  con- 
sidered a  large  one  in  our  water.  While  the  adult 
gar  is  decidedly  ugly,  the  young  are  very  beautiful. 
The  very  small  ones  look  like  golden  bodkins,  while 
one  the  size  of  a  lead  pencil,  with  his  bronzy  tint- 
ing, snow-white  belly,  and  gleaming  gold  eye,  is 
very  attractive.  These  smaller  fish  may  be  found 
floating  among  the  bent  water  grasses,  and  so  closely 
do  they  match  their  surroundings,  that  only  sharp 
eyes  can  detect  them  before  they  dart  for  shelter. 
One  flick  of  the  tail,  always  slightly  curved  for  in- 
stant action,  causes  the  smooth*  slim  body  to  vanish. 
We  used  to  take  these  fellows  by  stealthy  work 


The  Fishes  of  our  Boyhood  107 

with  a  small  landing  net  made  of  mosquito  bar,  the 
gars  being  interesting  for  aquariums. 

The  third  of  the  freak  fish  was  prized  for  his 
decided  method  of  taking  bait  and  his  stubborn 
resistance  when  hooked.  He  never  was  eaten, 
everybody  agreeing  that  he  surely  was  "pizen." 
This  fish,  the  bowfin  (Amia  calva\  was  termed 
"  dogfish,"  and  he  was  an  ugly-looking  fellow,  with 
a  greenish  yellow  body,  a  big,  toothy  mouth,  and 
a  most  evil  eye.  He  would  bite  a  finger  for  nothing, 
so  nervous  boys  cut  him  loose  and  sacrificed  a  hook, 
also  their  prestige.  Other  boys  beat  A.  calva  to 
death  with  sizable  clubs,  regained  the  hook,  and 
added  to  their  fame. 

Early  in  the  spring  the  short  spears  killed  many 
mullet.  These  red-finned,  olive-backed,  foolish- 
looking  fish  were  held  in  fair  esteem  for  the  table ; 
that  is,  about  three  good  ones  might  purchase  ex- 
emption from  a  whaling.  When  the  water  was  at 
the  muddy  stage,  the  red  fins  were  about  all  one 
could  distinguish  as  the  fish  rolled  in  the  eddies. 
Then  one  had  to  be  quick  and  accurate  with  the 
spear,  also  able  to  tell  by  the  fin  exactly  where  to 
strike.  With  the  mullet  came  the  pallid-looking 
suckers  —  bony,  worthless  affairs,  deemed  unfit  to 
carry  home.  Certain  people,  in  whom  much  of  the 
Old  Adam  still  lingered,  placed  these  suckers  at 
the  roots  of  cabbage  plants,  but  the  offer  of  one 
to  some  typical  lad,  or  an  invitation  to  dine  off  it, 
usually  meant  a  tossing  aside  of  hats  and  —  the 
inevitable ! 

After  clouded  waters  had  run  clear  and  regained 
their  normal  level  came  the  season  of  seasons. 


io8  Sporting  Sketches 

Then  the  bass  were  on  the  feed,  and  the  sport  they 
afforded  unrivalled.  There  were  plenty  of  bass  — 
large  and  small  mouth,  black  fighters,  weighing 
from  one  to  six  pounds;  square-built  rock-bass, 
sometimes  over  a  pound  in  weight;  shapely  white 
bass,  not  much  as  fighters,  even  when  a  foot  long, 
yet  dainty  for  the  pan;  and,  lastly,  the  calico  or 
grass  bass,  a  showy,  small  fellow,  and  a  quick,  jerky 
fighter,  and  his  distant  relative,  the  small  boy's 
pride,  the  beautiful  little  sunfish,  or  "  punkin-seed." 

Upon  many  days  a  catch  would  include  all  of 
these  and  other  fish,  such  as  catfish,  bullheads,  etc., 
which  invade  the  chosen  haunts  of  the  bass.  The 
best  places  were  about  old  piling,  submerged  trees, 
where  trees  hung  over  deep  water,  and  near  lily- 
pads  and  mats  of  grass.  Among  the  baits  were 
crayfish,  minnows,  white  grubs,  frogs,  grasshoppers, 
larvae  of  bees  and  wasps,  very  young  catfish,  and 
worms.  They  were  esteemed  about  in  the  order 
set  down,  and  if  any  one  of  them  did  not  promptly 
tempt  a  fish,  some  other  was  substituted.  The  boys 
knew  where  to  obtain  all  in  their  season.  The  fish- 
ing never  was  confined  to  one  spot,  nor  did  the 
boys  believe  that  silence  was  either  golden  or  neces- 
sary; in  fact,  they  noisily  chaffed  each  other  and 
chattered  at  will.  Their  rule  was  that  one  place 
was  good  only  so  long  as  bites  were  not  too  far 
apart,  and  when  water  within  reach  had  been  thor- 
oughly tested,  a  move  was  in  order. 

A  small-mouth  black  bass  was  the  prize  first  tried 
for,  say  about  a  submerged  tree.  For  him,  minnow, 
crayfish,  frog,  or  grub  was  deftly  cast  a  few  yards 
from  and  all  about  the  supposed  stronghold.  If  two 


The  Fishes  of  our  Boyhood  109 

or  more  of  the  baits  failed,  the  conclusion  was  that 
the  bass,  if  there,  was  not  in  a  biting  humor.  Then 
a  rock-bass  was  voted  good  enough,  and  the  bait 
was  sent  down  as  close  as  possible  to  the  submerged 
trunk  and  into  all  likely-looking  holes.  The  rock- 
bass,  all  honor  to  him,  seldom  failed  to  be  there  and 
ready  for  business.  So  one  promising  place  after 
another  would  be  tried,  the  sport  ending  perhaps 
miles  from  the  starting-point. 

The  rock-bass,  for  his  size,  was  a  good  fighter, 
and  better  when  properly  cooked.  He,  also  called 
"  red-eye  "  and  "  goggle-eye,"  frequently  showed  as 
black  as  one's  boot,  always  blacker  than  the  true 
black  bass,  which  really  is  of  an  olive-green  above 
and  lighter  below.  The  boys  called  the  rock-bass 
the  black  bass,  while  large  and  small  mouth  black 
bass  were  termed  "green  bass."  Now  and  then 
great  catches  of  white  bass  were  made.  I  once 
took,  where  a  creek  discolored  by  rain  joined  the 
river's  clear  flood,  more  than  one  hundred  white 
bass  within  one  and  one-quarter  hours.  I  fished 
standing  in  a  shooting-skiff,  dropping  the  fish  be- 
hind me  as  fast  as  they  could  be  removed  from  the 
artificial  lure.  The  rod  was  short  and  stiff,  and 
there  was  little  or  no  playing.  Many  more  fish 
might  have  been  taken,  but  the  skiff  began  to  leak, 
and  I  got  ashore  with  wet  feet.  Presumably  the 
muddy  water  of  the  creek  brought  down  so  much 
food  that  all  the  fish  in  the  neighborhood  were 
attracted  to  the  common  spot.  They  took  the  bait 
before  it  was  two  yards  below  the  surface,  and  just 
as  it  passed  the  line  between  muddy  and  clear  water. 

Another  good   fish  for  sport,  while  fair  for  the 


no  Sporting  Sketches 

pan,  was  the  yellow  perch.  These  handsome  fel- 
lows frequently  travelled  in  large  schools,  which 
meant  lively  work.  They  would  range  from  half 
a  pound  to  three  times  that  weight,  and  the  best 
bait  was  the  worm,  although  other  baits  sometimes 
proved  useful.  On  a  good  day,  and  these  were  none 
too  frequent,  the  catch  might  range  from  twenty  to 
three  times  that  number. 

A  very  beautiful  prize  was  the  sunfish,  for  which 
every  boy  has  a  warm  corner  in  his  heart.  A  large 
one  would  weigh  about  three-quarters  of  a  pound, 
but  specimens  one-fourth  that  weight  are  much 
more  frequently  taken.  They  are  greedy  biters  and 
game  in  their  own  way,  but  their  mouths  are  too 
small  for  ordinary  bass  hooks  and  baits.  A  very 
small  hook  bearing  a  portion  of  worm  will  at  once 
be  taken  if  the  sunfish  be  there,  and  he  is  there  in 
almost  every  stretch  of  our  old  waters.  He  delights 
in  sunny  shallows,  in  pools  among  the  grasses,  and 
he  also  is  addicted  to  lying  beside  roots  and  rubbish 
near  shore.  It  is  a  common  sight  to  see  these  fish 
poised  with  wavering  fins  above  their  spawn,  where 
the  sand  and  gravel  are  only  a  foot  or  so  below  the 
surface.  When  a  boy  marks  sunfish  so  engaged, 
these  fish  are  as  good  as  caught.  They  will  not 
forsake  the  spawn,  and  they  will  bite,  in  hunger  or 
anger,  at  anything  dropped  too  near  their  precious 
charge.  This  fish,  with  the  shiner  and  young  perch, 
shares  the  doubtful  honor  of  being  first  victim  of 
pin-hook  wiles. 

Among  rarely  taken  species  were  the  young 
whitefish  and  the  herring.  These  were  delicate 
mouthed  but  most  palatable,  yet  they  played  minor 


The  Fisbes  of  our  Boyhood  1 1 1 

parts  in  our  sport.  When  they  did  take  the  hook, 
the  bait  was  a  worm. 

Catfish  and  bullheads,  however,  always  could  be 
depended  upon  —  thirty  or  more  of  them  during  an 
evening.  What  the  boys  called  "  channel-cats  "  were 
taken  from  midstream  by  long  handlines  which 
had  a  sinker  at  the  end  and  two  hooks  bent  to 
short  lengths  of  line  above  the  sinker.  Worms  were 
deadly  bait,  and  shortly  after  sunset  was  the  best 
time.  The  catfish  were  of  all  sizes,  from  finger- 
lings  with  more  horns  than  body,  up  to  great  be- 
whiskered  ruffians  of  twenty  odd  pounds.  With  the 
exception  of  the  head,  repulsive  with  huge  mouth, 
small  eyes,  and  long  appendages,  the  smaller  chan- 
nel-cat is  a  handsome  fish.  The  body  is  clean  cut, 
the  fins  well  proportioned,  while  the  silvery,  scale- 
less,  slippery  skin  is  not  unattractive.  Fish  of  about 
one  pound  weight  were  excellent  eating,  although 
many  people  would  not  touch  them.  A  half  dozen 
of  them,  entombed  in  jelly,  which  also  contained 
vinegar,  hard-boiled  eggs,  sprigs  of  parsley  and  ice- 
cold,  was  —  but  those  days  have  passed  away ! 

These  fish  had  to  be  very  carefully  removed  from 
the  hook.  The  long  horns,  or  feelers,  were  harmless, 
but  in  the  fins  near  the  gills  were  awful, serrated  spikes 
which  could  inflict  most  painful  wounds.  If  allowed, 
the  slippery  cat  would  swing  his  head  vigorously, 
whereupon  the  captor's  hand  or  wrist  was  sure  to 
suffer.  The  small  mud-cat,  or  "  bullhead,"  also  has 
these  weapons  with  a  complete  knowledge  of  their 
use.  Frequently  wounds  from  them  caused  a  severe 
inflammation,  which  was  apt  to  extend  to  both  the 
temper  and  talk  of  the  victim. 


ii2  Sporting  Sketches 

When  fishing  for  cats  after  dark,  the  boys  often 
started  a  big  bonfire.  A  lot  of  fun  is  mingled  with 
the  ashes  of  those  old  fires.  A  row  of  handlines 
stretched  to  the  outer  darkness,  and  the  boys  sat 
more  or  less  patiently,  each  holding  his  cord.  A 
whispered  "  Got  a  bite  "  would  stop  all  conversa- 
tion, and  then  would  come  the  quick  strike  and  the 
unerring  snatching  as  dirty  hands  flew  through 
their  task  of  recovering  the  line.  If  the  resistance 
told  of  a  heavy  prize,  muttered  grunts  and  inarticu- 
late exclamations  added  tenseness  to  the  situation, 
till  the  big  fish  thrashed  the  surface  within  the  fire's 
light.  Then  would  go  up  such  a  yell  of  triumph 
that  our  folks  in  near-by  houses  would  not  know 
whether  we  merely  had  caught  a  good  one,  or  had 
all  tumbled  into  the  river.  If  we  eventually  turned 
up,  they  were,  or  pretended  to  be,  glad  to  see  us. 
Sometimes  a  boy  did  fall  in  and  win  as  many  yells 
as  a  fish,  though  the  yells  lacked  the  ring  of  true 
enthusiasm.  We  were  such  water-dogs  that  nobody 
bothered  much. 

At  intervals  a  boy  got  a  bite  which  puzzled  him, 
though  those  hands  could  feel  and  recognize  any 
fish  through  forty  yards  of  line.  Upon  these  occa- 
sions the  excitement  was  keen.  The  last  heave 
surely  would  land  either  a  mud-turtle  or  a  mud- 
puppy.  Both  of  these  were  awkward  customers. 
The  turtle  can  bite  like  fury,  and  fingers  had  no 
business  near  those  cutting  jaws.  The  shortest  way 
was  to  cut  free  the  hook  and  allow  the  turtle  to 
keep  it  as  a  souvenir. 

The  mud-puppy  was  different.  No  power  on 
earth  could  induce  a  boy  to  touch  that  slimy,  writh- 


The  Fishes  of  our  Boyhood  113 

ing,  slate-colored  shape.  The  fate  ever  was  the 
same.  The  cord  was  cut,  and  into  the  fire  went 
the  hapless  puppy.  This  creature,  by  the  way,  is 
a  most  repulsive-looking  water-lizard.  His  four 
stumpy  legs,  heavy  body,  apparent  lack  of  eyes,  and 
bunches  of  external  gills  were  neither  understood 
nor  appreciated  by  his  captors.  He  was  "  pizen," 
and  no  respect  was  due  those  who  rightly  claimed 
he  was  harmless.  He  would  bite,  or  at  least  try 
to,  for  never,  to  my  knowledge,  was  he  allowed  even 
half  a  chance  to  illustrate  his  capacity  in  that  direc- 
tion. His  appearance  was  quite  sufficient.  Peace 
be  to  his  ashes !  for  he  suffered  much. 

A  lamprey,  too,  could  cause  quite  a  commotion. 
This  creature  the  boys  never  could  understand,  and 
they  were  more  or  less  afraid  of  it.  At  rare  inter- 
vals, one  was  seen  attached  by  its  sucker  mouth  to 
a  bass.  The  lamprey,  or  "  lamper-eel,"  may  once 
have  been  considered  a  delicacy,  but  the  boys  would 
have  none  of  it.  It  might  have  killed  an  uncertain 
king,  but  it  would  kill  no  positively  certain  boy  if  he 
saw  it  first.  This  eel  was  from  a  foot  to  a  foot  and 
a  half  long,  and  possessed  a  circular,  sucking  mouth, 
with  a  palate  well  supplied  with  small,  sharp  teeth. 
Behind  the  mouth,  upon  either  side,  were  seven 
small  openings,  which  greatly  puzzled  the  boys. 

I  have  more  than  once  seen  bass  thrashing  about 
with  one  of  these  suckers  firmly  attached,  and  the 
fish's  actions  either  indicated  pain  or  a  deadly  fear 
of  its  comrade.  One  bass  which  I  shot,  and  from 
which  I  detached  the  lamprey,  showed  an  ugly-look- 
ing raw  spot  where  the  sucker  had  been.  I  have 
seen  many  bass  bearing  similar  marks.  Once,  when 


ii4  Sporting  Sketches 

some  of  the  boys  were  wading  in  a  pond  left  by  high 
water,  a  lamprey  fastened  upon  a  bare  leg.  That 
boy  did  more  stunts  in  one  minute  for  no  reward 
than  he  would  attempt  now  for  five  thousand  dol- 
lars! The  thing  finally  let  go,  and  only  a  slight 
mark  remained. 

So  much  for  the  fishes  of  boyhood,  and,  inci- 
dentally, for  the  boys  themselves.  Of  that  happy 
party,  some  have  since  learned  about  the  fishes  of 
the  Shadow  River.  The  others  are  scattered  far 
and  wide,  some  glad  with  human  hopes,  some,  alas ! 
gray  with  human  griefs.  Some  have  seen  the  great 
salmon  pools  and  trout  waters  of  remotest  wilds,  and 
have  learned  the  science  of  modern  tools  and  per- 
fected methods.  Perchance  their  barefoot  training 
has  ofttimes  stood  them  in  good  stead.  It  may 
be  that  the  survivors  would  gladly  cast  aside  their 
modern  improvements  for  the  privilege  of  once  again 
assembling  by  the  old  bonfire ;  to  see  the  lines  lead- 
ing into  the  darkness,  the  floating  captives  upon 
their  separate  tethers,  the  mud-puppy  roasting  upon 
his  pyre,  and  some  thoughtful  spirit  calmly  carving 
his  initials  upon  a  hapless,  hissing  "  turkle."  Quien 
sabe  ? 


©COME      TTIW1TDII& 


IT  is  wonderful  how  the  first  moistly  warm  breath 
from  the  south  affects  an  old  trout  fisher.  Even  in 
that  infernal  city  Canon  —  a  cobbled  trail  between 
sheer  cliffs  of  soulless  brownstone,  mortgaged  and 
otherwise,  and  inhabited  by  a  brand  of  cliff-dwellers 
whose  favorite  form  of  angling  is  the  playing  of 
suckers  —  the  magic  of  the  south  wind  can  assert 
itself. 

Through  my  open  window  streams  God's  glorious 
oxygen,  and  upon  the  floor  is  a  huge  square  of  gold, 
painted  by  that  mighty  brush  which  traces  the  ebon 
shadows  of  huge  trunk  and  hair-like  twig  upon  the 
failing  drifts  and  glassy  surface  pools  of  the  North. 
Perched  upon  the  very  sash  is  a  cock-tailed,  bull- 
headed,  thoroughly  British  sparrow,  and  he  eyes  me 
with  an  impertinent  intentness  which  might  earn  for 
him  a  small,  cold  bottle  that  lately  held  ink,  were  it 
not  that  I  love  all  feathered  things  from  ostriches  to 
oars.  The  rascal  knows  it,  too,  and  besides  he  is 
full  of  spring  and  absolutely  irresponsible.  I  know 
what  his  heart  craves  of  me.  There  are  some  foolish 
strips  of  paper  bearing  nothing  more  valuable  than 
a  mere  writer's  silly  notes,  and,  possibly,  a  few  shreds 
of  yarn  are  dangling  from  the  right  cuff  of  the  hard- 
worked  jacket.  Such  things  make  a  noble  mess, 

"5 


n6  Sporting  Sketches 

when  conspicuouslypacked  against  some  inaccessible 
masonry,  and  the  naturalized  citizen  wants  them 
with  that  keen  craving  for  small  things  which  seems 
to  possess  the  majority  of  imported  citizens. 

The  song  of  the  beggar  is  as  exasperating  as  his 
insolent  small  person.  He  seems  to  "  Chir-uff-chirr- 
chirr-chirr-up,"  but  woven  through  it  is  an  undertone 
which  distinctly  says,  "  Ow !  come  out  o'  that,  you 
bloomin'  beggar;  chuck  away  that  bally  pen ;  stop 
meddlin'  with  the  blawsted  stationery ;  it's  spring  out 
'ere." 

Only  the  old-time  teaching,  that  not  a  sparrow 
shall  fall,  keeps  me  from  flicking  at  him  with  the 
trout-tackle.  And,  as  if  he  were  not  sufficiently 
exasperating,  there  is  the  everlasting  New  York  boy, 
proud  of  new  rubber  boots  and  a  handy  puddle.  I'll 
bet  two  dollars  on  that  boy :  one  that  he  wishes  he 
was  a  centipede  so  he  could  demand  a  whole  lot 
more  boots,  and  the  other  that  he  has  attended  one 
of  the  sportsmen's  shows.  Do  you  see  that  motion 
with  the  bit  of  lath?  That  is  his  idea  of  fly-cast- 
ing. In  his  mind  that  lath  is  nine  feet  long,  tapered, 
pointed,  reeled,  and  lovely  like  the  things  he 
saw  at  the  show.  To  his  ghost-wand  is  attached 
a  silken  dream-line,  and  that  puddle  is  foam-flecked 
and  thrilling  with  stream  music.  That  one  out-of- 
plumb  cobble-stone  is  a  big  rock,  and  that  bit  of 
banana  peel  is  a  trout  —  a  two-pounder,  mind  you ! 

—  and  that  silent,  earnest,  wading  boy  is  going  to 
get  him.     When  ?     Never  mind  when.     Sometime 

—  perhaps  in  the  Adirondacks,  Maine,  Wisconsin, 
or  Quebec  —  the  dream  will  come  true.     How  do  I 
know  all  this  ?     Because  that  boy  is  allowed  to  come 


Some  Truths  about  Trouting  117 

over  and  play  with  me  two  mornings  each  week, 
and  I  never  yet  played  with  a  boy  without  poisoning 
his  young  mind  to  the  limit.  "  Spare  the  rod  and 
spoil  the  child  "  may  be  true ;  but  there's  an  old  rod 
which  can  be  spared  for  him,  so  soon  as  he  can  be 
pried  loose  from  his  mother  long  enough  for  an  easy 
trek  nor'rard. 

And  why  not  ?  There  is  no  whisper  of  any  evil 
in  the  song  of  the  stream,  nor  one  germ  of  harm 
in  its  hurrying  flood.  The  heavenly  music  of  the 
bobolink's  golden  bell  shaken  hither  and  yon  above 
perfumed  meads  is  only  rivalled  by  the  mirthful 
chuckle  or  rippling  laugh  of  the  trout  stream  play- 
ing its  ceaseless  game  from  sun  to  shade  of  its 
magic  way. 

Boys  and  tomboys  should  be  given  opportunity 
and  encouragement  to  fish,  because  scientific  angling 
is  one  of  the  cleanest,  most  instructive,  and  most 
fascinating  of  all  our  out-door  sports.  It  embodies 
the  true  poetry  and  refinement  of  sport  and  this  with- 
out any  approach  to  the  over-delicate  or  unmanly. 
Keen  devotee  of  the  gun  as  I  am,  yet  I  would  hesitate 
to  rank  shooting  as  a  refined  sport  above  angling. 
It  is  possible,  by  the  strictest  observance  of  the  true 
sporting  code,  to  so  elevate  shooting  that  it  becomes 
no  unworthy  rival  of  angling ;  but,  unfortunately,  too 
few  men  ever  attempt  to  make  work  with  the  gun 
the  clean,  wholesome,  educational  thing  it  ought  to 
be.  As  a  rule,  there  is  far  too  much  killing  and  far 
too  little  intelligent  study. 

But  to  the  trouting.  Your  old  hand  knows  that 
the  first  few  days  after  the  snow-water  has  run  out 
are  apt  to  be  the  best.  He  also  knows  that  it  is 


n8  Sporting  Sketches 

possible  to  get  a  bit  of  sport  on  Long  Island  ;  better 
sport  and  more  of  it  in  the  Adirondacks  and  some 
parts  of  Pennsylvania  and  the  best  of  all  the  North- 
ern states  in  Maine.  Beyond  that  are  the  many 
Canadian  waters  of  New  Brunswick,  Quebec,  and 
northern  Ontario.  These  offer  sport  unsurpassed 
amidst  the  wildest  of  romantically  wild  surroundings, 
and  there  are  leagues  upon  leagues  of  rare  good 
waters. 

The  north  shore  of  the  St.  Lawrence  alone  offers 
ample  scope  for  a  life-long  study  of  the  brook  trout 
and  its  ways,  and  few  indeed  are  the  men  who  have 
thoroughly  tested  the  cold,  swift  streams  of  even  the 
one  stretch  of  the  north  shore  between  Montreal 
and  Quebec,  to  say  nothing  of  that  region  extending 
from  north  of  Quebec  to  and  about  Lake  St.  John. 
Then  there  is  the  north  shore  of  Superior,  with  its 
storied  Nepigon  and  its  dozens  of  minor  lakes  and 
streams,  the  latter  short  and  fairly  tumbling  down 
rock-bound  steps  to  the  huge  ice-cold  basin,  which 
floats  no  dead  to  its  sternly  hewed  strand. 

Among  the  gleaming  network  of  waters  flung 
over  the  country  from  Maine  to  Labrador,  from 
Atlantic  tide-water  to  the  snowy  surf  of  the  Great 
Inland  Sea,  from  the  wonderful  new  country  of  the 
upper  Ottawa  down  to  the  longer-settled  slopes  of 
the  lower,  one  can  find  trout  fishing  unsurpassed  in 
the  world  and,  perhaps,  only  rivalled  by  the  cream 
of  the  sport  of  the  cloud-swept  tarns  and  glacier- 
born  streams  of  the  Rockies  and  neighboring 
ranges.  Thousands  of  miles  of,  trout  waters  in  all, 
and  many  of  them  practically  unfished.  Well  might 
the  scientific  angler  devote  his  life  to  them. 


Some  Truths  about  Trouting  119 

But,  perhaps  fortunately,  we  are  not  all  scientific, 
hence  a  few  hints  to  the  raw  enthusiast  may  prove 
useful.  In  the  first  place,  let  him  dismiss  the  notion 
that  all,  or  for  that  matter  one-eighth,  of  our  trout 
waters  offer  unlimited  facilities  for  all  sorts  of  long- 
distance casting,  for  they  do  not.  For  artistic 
fly-fishing  one  needs  must  have  plenty  of  space 
behind  as  well  as  in  front,  for  the  back-cast  is  the 
real  difficulty.  Here  and  there,  in  forest  lakes,  are 
reefs  and  shallows  where  one  may  wade  and  find 
plenty  of  room,  but  as  a  rule  some  craft,  or  raft,  is 
necessary  to  enable  one  to  get  away  from  the  shore. 
On  the  stream  one  finds  room  for  action  by  wading 
up  or  down.  This  owing  to  the  fact  that  compara- 
tively few  streams  can  be  properly  fished  from  the 
banks.  Hence,  stream  fishing  means  wading,  which 
demands  a  proper  equipment,  unless  the  fisher  be  one 
of  that  foolish-fond  brigade  who  believe  that  a  reck- 
less defiance  of  cold  water  denotes  the  proper  spirit. 

But  the  wise  man  knows  that  long-continued 
wading  and  getting  wet  are  bad  for  the  human 
machine  —  that  what  may  be  laughed  at  to-day  may 
be  heard  from  later  on,  when  the  rich  sporting  blood 
has  cooled  a  bit.  It  is  all  very  fine  to  depend  upon 
that  broken  reed,  the  flask,  or  that  much-abused  and 
seldom-understood  thing,  one's  constitution.  Both 
fail  at  times.  A  distillery  couldn't  remedy  some  of 
the  possible  damages  due  to  foolish  exposure,  while 
the  Constitution  of  the  United  States  would  be  no 
guarantee  against  rheumatism  or  other  evils.  That 
a  few  men  have  been  wet  time  and  again  for  hours 
at  a  stretch  is  no  proof  that  you  can  stand  the 
same  ordeal,  and  the  trouble  is  that  you  have  to  do 


120  Sporting  Sketches 

the  sum  to  prove  it.  If  you  moved  into  a  house  just 
vacated  by  a  doctor  and  found  a  small  vial  contain- 
ing some  unknown  mixture,  would  you  swallow  that 
mixture  just  to  learn  if  it  were  deadly  or  harmless? 
And  in  this  connection,  be  not  too  readily  guided 
by  the  statements  of  that  too-prevalent  old  reprobate 
who  is  forever  yarning  of  the  old-time  fishing  and 
the  heroic  manner  in  which  he  and  his  friend  just 
ploughed  through  everything  and  got  wet  every  day 
from  heels  to  midriff.  It's  just  possible  that  he  may 
be  a  fluent  liar,  because  rumor  saith  that  anglers 
are  not  exempt. 

Because  wading  is  the  best  way  to  get  trout,  and 
downstream  the  best  way  to  wade,  I  do  both,  but 
before  starting  I  do  several  other  things  which  are 
rather  important.  The  first  of  these  is  to  don  all- 
wool  underwear  and  thick  woollen  socks,  because 
they  are  the  best-known  safeguards  against  a  chill 
or  taking  cold.  Over  the  woollen  wear  should  go  a 
gray  flannel  shirt,  or  sweater,  and  any  old  pair  of  gray 
trousers.  If  the  weather  demands  it,  an  old  gray 
coat  should  be  added,  while  for  the  head  there  is 
nothing  so  good  as  an  old,  soft,  gray  felt  hat  —  an 
old  "  Fedora,"  or  a  "  wide-awake,"  is  the  very  thing. 
Either  of  these  will  properly  shade  the  eyes  —  a 
needful  thing  on  sunlit  water  —  and  at  the  same 
time  furnish  a  convenient  place  for  the  supply  of 
hooks.  For  the  feet,  especially  during  the  early 
season,  there  is  nothing  better  than  the  rubber 
waders,  which  come  well  up  to  the  fork  and  fit 
snugly  to  the  thigh.  They  may  be  turned  down  to 
below  the  knee,  which  greatly  aids  one  to  cool  off 
upon  a  warm  day. 


Some  Truths  about  Trouting  121 

Here,  then,  is  the  fisher  dressed  in  a  workmanlike 
and  thoroughly  comfortable  suit,  which,  because  the 
tree-trunks  beside  the  stream,  and  also  the  rocks, 
present  a  general  grayish  tone,  admirably  blends 
with  the  surroundings,  and  fairly  melts  into  the 
shadows  early  and  late  in  the  day.  The  next  best 
color  is  the  "  dead-grass "  shade  of  the  regulation 
shooting-suit,  but  for  the  stream  the  gray  is  unrivalled. 
And  I  firmly  believe  the  matter  of  costume  is  of 
more  importance  than  some  anglers  are  willing  to 
admit.  Long  ago  I  made  a  study  of  the  subject  of 
shooting-gear,  and  from  geese  and  other  wary  gentry 
learned  the  true  value  of  closely  matching  the 
costume  with  the  natural  surroundings.  Later,  the 
color  scheme  for  trout  was  taken  up,  and  certainly 
results  have  proved  that  close  attention  to  these 
fine  points  is  good  medicine.  It  is  quite  true  that 
men  garbed  any  old  way  can  and  do  kill  trout  in 
some  waters;  but  that  by  no  means  applies  to  all 
waters,  especially  those  that  are  low  and  crystal 
clear.  There  are  fool  trout  and  educated  trout,  and 
the  man  who  craves  the  valedictorian  trout,  or,  for 
that  matter,  the  sweet-girl-graduate  trout,  will  do 
well  to  observe  the  common-sense  rule,  which  reads, 
Dress  as  inconspicuously  as  possible. 

A  man  once  asked  me  if  I  really  believed  in  the 
importance  of  correct  dressing,  which  implied  that 
fish  could,  as  he  put  it,  "see  out  of  the  water," 
meaning  that  a  fish  in  the  water  could  see  objects 
upon  the  bank.  I  wondered,  for  that  man  had 
killed  perhaps  hundreds  of  trout  which  had  leaped 
inches  above  the  stream  when  taking  his  flies.  I 
have  seen  a  small  trout  not  only  jump  for,  but  hook 


i22  Sporting  Sketches 

itself,  in  its  effort  to  seize  a  fly  carelessly  left  hang- 
ing against  the  side  of  a  mossy  boulder  and  sev- 
eral inches  above  the  water.  The  eye  is  not  always 
reliable,  but  I  gravely  suspect  mine  has  seen  a  big 
trout  gather  in  a  white  moth  flitting  a  foot  or  more 
above  the  stream.  This  would  not  only  suggest  an 
ability  to  see  out  of  the  water,  but  to  see  most 
amazingly  well,  for  a  moving  mark  the  size  of  a 
miller  demands  deadly  accuracy.  Furthermore,  the 
neatness  and  despatch  displayed  by  a  big  trout  in 
getting  into  deeper  water  the  instant  a  man  appears 
upon  the  bank,  shadow  or  no  shadow,  is  strongly 
suggestive  of  an  ability  to  see. 

The  advantage  of  fishing'  downstream  is  twofold, 
i.e.  the  fly  or  bait  comes  to  the  fish  with  the  stream, 
as  the  fish  has  learned  to  expect  prey  to  come. 
Hence,  to  meet  pleasant  possibilities,  he  is  lying 
with  his  nose  to  the  current,  which  can  be  made  to 
assist  in  getting  the  lure  where  desired.  Also,  the 
man  on  any  ordinary  stream  should  have  the  need- 
ful space  behind,  while  retaining  the  power  to  cover 
every  yard  of  water  below.  The  sole  disadvantage 
of  fishing  with  the  stream  is  that  accidental  disturb- 
ance of  stones,  etc.,  may  be  carried  to  fish  directly 
below,  while  sometimes  one's  extended  shadow  may 
cause  trouble.  The  wise  man,  of  course,  does  not 
make  a  habit  of  suffering  his  shadow  to  shift  over 
every  pool,  but  the  trouble  with  shadow  of  man  and 
rod  may  be  overcome  by  shifting  from  side  to  side 
of  the  water  as  occasion  may  demand. 

In  regard  to  lures,  the  truth  is  that  only  a  small 
proportion  of  early  fish  are  taken  with  the  fly.  It 
is  true  that  a  host  of  anglers  glorify  fly-fishing  and 


Some  Truths  about  T routing  123 

condemn  bait ;  but  it  is  equally  true  that  a  number 
of  those  very  anglers  use  both  bait  and  artificial 
lures  other  than  flies  upon  those  numerous  days 
when  trout  are  not  keen  for  the  fly.  I  have  not  the 
slightest  desire  to  belittle  fly-fishing,  nor  have  I  any 
hesitancy  over  saying  that  I  have  used  most  of  the 
obtainable  baits.  Unquestionably,  when  fly-fishing 
is  good,  it  is  preferable,  but  unfortunately  it  is  not 
always  good,  or  even  fair ;  nay,  more  often  than  not 
it  is  utterly  unreliable  and  not  seldom  impossible. 
At  such  times,  instead  of  fretting  and  stewing  over 
it,  I  go  get  bait,  and,  incidentally,  trout. 

It  may  be  the  proper  caper  to  sneer  at  bait,  but  to 
use  it  on  fine  tackle  may  demand  the  fly-fisher's  skill 
and  something  more.  The  expert  bait-fisher  must 
know  what  the  trout  are  taking  and  why,  also  where 
that  thing  is  to  be  obtained  and  how.  He  has 
more  to  do  than  to  reach  for  his  hat  or  book,  and 
if  he  cannot  procure  the  exact  thing,  he  must  know 
of  one,  two,  or  half-a-dozen  possible  substitutes,  and 
just  where  and  how  they  are  to  be  obtained  at  short 
notice,  which  is  apt  to  mean  he  must  get  them  for 
himself.  After  the  fish  is  once  hooked,  the  same 
skill  is  required  to  play  and  land  it,  no  matter  if  it 
rose  to  a  hackle,  a  worm,  a  grub,  a  young  mouse,  a 
natural  insect,  or  even  that  oft-used  old  reliable  — 
a  small  section  of  some  soulful  sow.  Hence  it  is 
not  all  of  fishing  to  cast  flies,  nor  is  it  all  of  sound 
sense  to  go  without  fish  when  you  want  'em,  simply 
because  the  poetic  way  to  take  trout  happens  to  be 
by  means  of  a  bunco  bug,  fashioned  out  of  barbed 
wire  and  millinery,  and  bearing  only  a  questionable 
resemblance  to  any  honest  insect. 


1 24  Sporting  Sketches 

But  when  the  water,  surroundings,  day,  and  fish 
are  as  they  should  be,  then  indeed  is  fly-fishing  the 
artistic  and  fascinating  thing  of  which  enthusiasts 
have  raved  ever  since  the  introduction  of  fine  tackle 
and  its  necessary  fine  art.  The  trail  of  the  trouter 
must  penetrate  the  picturesque  —  nay !  it  is  one  long 
gallery  hung  with  the  scenic  masterpieces  of  East 
and  West.  Forever  before  one  winds,  or  spreads, 
the  silver  pathway  of  the  brook  —  the  flashing  shield 
of  the  lonely  lake.  Forever  in  one's  ears  is  liquid 
melody  of  cold,  sweet  water,  always  singing  to 
woody  aisles  of  shadow,  or  breaking  in  foamy  music 
about  the  feet  of  stony  sentinels  whose  everlasting 
duty  is  to  guard  the  gem-like  lakes  of  all  the  forested 
North. 

But  trout  fishing  is  not  always  the  delicate  play 
of  fairy  tackle  upon  baby  streams  and  bantam  lakes. 
Where  the  purple  battlements  of  Superior's  shore 
repel  the  white-maned  cavalry  of  the  queen  of  fresh- 
water seas,  there  is  trout  fishing  unrivalled  for  scope 
and  grandeur  of  accessories.  Where  a  big  bay 
curves  in  behind  the  outer  cliffs  and  leaves  the  tu- 
mult of  surfy  assault  to  leap,  break,  and  retreat  from 
its  hopeless  task,  I  have  stood  of  a  summer  evening 
and  wondered.  A  full  half-mile  of  calm,  crystal- 
clear  water,  cold  as  the  sweat  of  a  dying  glacier,  was 
ringed  and  dimpled  everywhere  by  the  play  of  rising 
trout.  The  first  big  drops  of  a  summer  shower  might 
produce  a  similar  effect.  And,  to  avoid  a  possible 
misunderstanding,  let  me  say  that  brook  trout  are 
meant,  and  not  "  lakers  "  or  any  other  fish  peculiar 
to  large  waters.  In  the  bays,  coves,  and  at  intervals 
along  the  north  shore,  the  brook  trout  finds  con- 


Some  Truths  about  Trouting  125 

genial  haunts.  The  Height  of  Land  is  only  a  short 
distance  inland,  hence  all  the  good  streams  of  that 
side  of  Superior  are  short,  as  they  mostly  are  outlets 
of  small  near-by  lakes.  Even  the  famous  Nepigon 
River,  which  might  be  termed  the  continuation  of 
the  St.  Lawrence  beyond  the  Great  Lakes,  is  only 
about  thirty-one  miles  long  from  its  hasty  exit  from 
its  parent,  Lake  Nepigon,  at  Flat  Rock,  to  its  final 
plunge  into  Nepigon  Bay,  an  indentation  of  the 
north  shore  of  Lake  Superior.  The  chief  merit 
of  these  north-shore  streams  is  that  they  practically 
are  natural  fishways  connecting  many  small  forest 
lakes  with  the  fresh-water  sea. 


TTLIUE 


I  GOT  home  about  midnight  —  or  somewhere  in 
that  latitude.  Grounds  and  house  alike  were  one 
black  mystery ;  but  where  the  gate  was  supposed  to 
be,  a  dull  white  spot  showed.  I  knew  it  would  be 
there.  Others  of  the  family  might  pass  in  and  out, 
they  might  leave  early  and  return  late,  yet  see  noth- 
ing ;  but  when  I  came  home  it  was  different.  Just 
as  sure  as  I  neared  that  gate,  no  matter  how  long 
after  midnight,  just  so  sure  was  I  to  see  that  whitish- 
looking  spot.  Cold  and  damp  made  no  difference 
—  it  would  be  there. 

"  Your  wretched,  neglected  wife !  "  says  my  lady 
reader. 

No'm,  not  the  same.  My  wife  hasn't  got  ribs  like 
a  spiral  spring,  nor  four  legs.  I  am  referring  to  a 
D-o-g!  D'ye  s'pose  I'd  want  my  wife  out  there 
keepin'-tabs-and-gettin'-cold-feet  and  —  but  I  digress. 
Not  until  I  was  within  a  step  of  him  did  the  grand 
fellow  move ;  then  he  slowly  rose" -upon  his  hind  feet 
and  placed  two  dappled  paws  upon  my  breast,  while 

126 


The  Best  of  the  Bass  127 

his  shapely  muzzle  sought  my  lowered  face.  For  a 
moment  my  hand  played  with  the  silky  softness  of 
his  thin  ear,  then  as  he  regretfully  slid  down  I  asked, 
"  Want  to  go,  old  fellow ;  want  to  go  ?  " 

Did  he  want  to  go  !  Such  caperings,  fool  pranks, 
and  fancy  steps !  Did  he  actually  understand  ?  Aye, 
right  well.  In  his  strange  dog  wisdom  he  knew  that 
within  four  hours  something  would  be  doing,  and 
just  so  sure  as  I  went  up  for  that  much  sleep,  just 
so  sure  would  he  sleep  on  the  door-mat  instead  of 
in  his  kennel,  and  be  lying  there  quivering  and 
shuddering,  pointer-fashion,  in  an  ecstasy  of  antici- 
pation when  I  stole  down  'twixt  the  dawn  and  the 
day. 

How  could  he  know?  Don't  ask  me.  I  cannot 
explain,  though  I  have  my  theories.  Good  dogs 
know  much  more  than  most  people  imagine.  Edu- 
cated dogs,  that  are  made  close  comrades,  especially 
those  which  have  been  owned,  trained,  and  handled 
from  puppyhood  to  their  prime  by  only  one  man, 
get  to  know  that  man,  his  moods,  and  methods  as 
few  people  know  each  other.  This  dog  could  read 
my  face  and  interpret  every  shading  of  the  voice. 
I  could  make  his  ears  drop  with  one  glance  of 
mock  severity,  or  set  him  bounding  with  a  mirthful 
chuckle. 

As  usual,  I  was  sitting  up  and  rubbing  my  eyes 
before  the  clock  gave  its  first  warning  skir-r !  It's 
funny  about  that  clock.  If  I  didn't  wind  and  set  it, 
I'd  oversleep  till  any  old  time ;  but  after  solemnly 
fixing  the  infernal  machine,  the  appointed  hour  will 
find  me  staring  at  it,  face  to  face,  with  exactly  spare 
seconds  enough  for  me  to  grab  the  thing,  stuff  it 


128  Sporting  Sketches 

under  the  bedclothes,  and  sit  on  it  to  smother  its 
tirade,  lest  others  be  needlessly  disturbed. 

It  was  a  perfect  morning.  Through  the  wide- 
open  window  crept  the  rare  breath  of  summer, 
a-tremble  with  bird  music  and  rich  with  the  sweet- 
ness of  garden,  orchard,  and  pine  below.  One 
glance  at  the  flaming  east  told  the  story,  then  a 
plunge  into  cold  water,  a  scramble  into  flannel  shirt 
and  knickers,  a  fumble  with  the  other  things,  and  I 
stole  downstairs.  I  say  stole  down  advisedly.  This 
getting  down  was  ticklish  business.  On  my  feet 
were  lacrosse  shoes  —  partly  for  comfort  and  silence, 
but  chiefly  for  the  sake  of  the  canoe  they  would 
shortly  be  in.  One  door  was  hard  to  pass.  One 
hundred  times  had  I  essayed  to  do  it,  and  exactly 
one  hundred  times  had  I  failed.  But  the  rubber 
soles  would  fool  her  —  I  was  almost  past. 

"  That  you,  my  son  ?  " 

"  Yep." 

"  Going  to  dig  that  bed  for  me  ?  —  so  good  of 
you." 

"  Yep ;  goin'-to-dig-out-right-now." 

"  Did  you  say  dig  out  or  out-to-dig  ?  " 

Then  I  skipped. 

Did  I  dig  garden  ?  Sure !  I  dug  about  four 
yards  square,  where  the  worms  were  good  and 
plenty.  Then  I  snatched  a  breakfast,  gave  the  dog 
a  bite,  packed  a  snack  —  and  fled  from  the  wrath  to 
come !  Not  until  the  good  canoe  had  slid  well 
around  the  first  bend  did  the  wicked  cease  from 
paddling.  Then  the  pipe  was  set  going,  and  Don 
and  I  straightened  up  and  Io6ked  at  each  other. 
He  knew  —  the  villain  !  But  she  couldn't  get  either 


The  Best  of  the  Bass  129 

one  of  us  till  night  —  and  she  never  could  hold  any- 
thing against  a  fellow  for  more  than  three  minutes 
and  a  half. 

For  miles  the  land  was  level  and  the  stream 
lazy.  In  such  a  country  there  could  be  no  swift 
water,  and  this  one  dawdled  along  with  almost  no 
perceptible  current.  Yet  it  was  no  mere  trickle  of 
moisture,  but  a  river  full  eighty  yards  broad  and 
twenty  feet  deep.  A  few  miles  lower  down  its  banks 
dwindled  to  nothingness,  and  the  broadening  waters 
drowsed  through  marshy  wastes  suggestive  of  Lin- 
colnshire fens  in  olden  days.  But  above  my  start- 
ing-point the  land  gradually  rose  higher  and  higher 
till  it  formed  cliffs  of  rich  clay,  twenty  feet  and  more 
high.  The  windings  of  the  stream  were  so  erratic 
that  in  one  stretch  of  sixty  miles  by  an  air  line 
the  actual  distance  by  water  was  one  hundred  and 
twenty  odd  miles.  Nearly  every  mile  of  water  was 
good  fishing,  but  to  a  lazy  cancer  the  upper  reaches, 
being  more  wooded,  were  more  attractive.  Every 
one  of  the  innumerable  bends  presented  a  picture 
of  a  steep,  tree-covered  bank  upon  the  one  hand 
and  opposite  a  brushy  flat  of  greater  or  less  extent. 
This  was  caused  by  ages  of  the  cutting  away  of  the 
bank  toward  which  the  current  happened  to  set,  and 
a  corresponding  deposit  of  silt  and  rubbish  by  the 
slack  water  opposite.  Such  an  apparent  mystery 
on  a  lazy  stream  was  naturally  explained  by  the 
spring  freshets.  Then  the  water  rose  twelve,  fifteen, 
or  twenty  feet  and  went  raging  lakeward,  jamming 
miles  of  ice  which  uprooted  hundreds  of  trees  and 
ploughed  like  a  glacier  into  every  opposing  bank. 
After  the  frost  was  out,  the  soft,  undermined  bank 


130  Sporting  Sketches 

slipped  here  and  there,  and  pitched  grand  trees, 
top  first,  into  the  stream.  And  where  they  fell  they 
lay,  perhaps  for  several  seasons,  until  an  unusually 
heavy  flood  tore  them  from  their  anchorages  and 
flung  them,  battered  and  whitening,  against  some 
projection  lower  down,  there  to  await  the  fiercer 
mood  of  an  angrier  torrent. 

Such  wrecks  occurred  at  short  intervals,  and  he 
who  knew  the  river  knew  what  to  do  at  such  points. 
With  one  tree  already  well-nigh  submerged,  and  its 
fellow  bending  far  over  it  and  only  awaiting  a  wind 
from  the  proper  point  to  complete  its  fall,  the  bass 
found  ideal  quarters.  The  submerged  tree  was  a 
fortress,  from  which  dusky  freebooters  might  raid 
at  will.  The  overhanging  trees  cast  a  shadow  of 
velvet  darkness,  fit  screen  for  piratical  deeds,  and  — 
well !  you  know  some  grubs  and  larvae  are  ridicu- 
lously fat  and  careless,  and  bound  to  slip  from  the 
smooth  twig  now  and  then.  And  young  birds,  too  ! 
It's  simply  awful  the  pace  infants  go  these  days.  A 
young,  naked  thing,  with  its  eyes  barely  open,  actu- 
ally trying  to  fly !  and  it  comes  down  through  the 
leaves  with  a  spat-spat,  its  silly,  pink-meaty  abortions 
of  wings  spread  and  its  wretched  little  bare  legs 
kicking,  and  it  lands  —  in  the  water  ?  Occasionally. 
Sometimes  it  lands  directly  in  a  bass,  and  again  the 
bass  has  to  make  a  rush  of  a  yard  or  so,  to  save  the 
bird  from  drowning. 

And  then,  again  a  few  feet  of  the  overhanging  sod 
break  away.  Those  mice  are  so  silly!  They  will 
nest  in  the  eave,  as  it  were  ;  and  then  they  must  bore 
up  so  as  to  let  down  the  surface  water  when  the  rain 
is  busy.  And  then  the  whole  affair  tumbles  in,  and 


The  Best  of  the  Bass  131 

they  wonder  why.  The  sod  makes  a  splash  which 
no  fish  could  help  but  hear.  Then  the  earth  melts 
away  and  leaves  a  big  ball  of  dry  grass,  which  floats 
and  floats  and  rocks  about  till  some  kind-hearted  bass 
takes  a  bunt  at  it,  to  find  if  it  needs  any  assistance. 
And  it  loosens  up,  and  a  half  dozen  or  more  little 
pink  things  fall  out,  and  go  wavering,  twisting,  and 
shuddering  toward  the  bottom.  And  kind  Mr.  Bass 
sees  how  it  is,  —  he  has  babies  of  his  own, — and 
he  gathers  in  the  small  castaways,  where  neither  the 
nasty  wet  river  nor  the  horrid  black  mud  will  ever 
touch  them  again. 

And  then  there  are  the  frogs,  grasshoppers,  and 
crickets.  Let  a  man,  or  even  an  old  cow,  but  move 
along  the  bank  above,  and  all  these  three  must 
needs  start  a-jumping.  Nobody's  going  to  touch 
them,  but  they  will  jump,  and  they  never  look  where 
they  are  going.  Over  the  bank  —  then,  of  course, 
plop  into  ten  feet  or  more  of  water.  And  the  poor 
bass,  trying  to  enjoy  a  little  peace  and  quiet  under 
his  log,  has  to  hustle  out  and  save  life.  Things  — 
even  very  foolish  things  —  cannot  be  suffered  to 
drown  right  at  one's  door.  And  the  crayfish !  Per- 
fectly safe  under  the  sunken  stuff  if  they  only  would 
stop  there.  But  no  !  out  they  go,  backward  at  that! 
never  looking  where  they  are  going  —  flip  —  flip  — 
flip  —  in  a  crazy  rush ;  actually  jostling  decent,  well- 
mannered  bass;  even  striking  them  in  the  face,  in 
their  vulgar  impetuosity.  What  can  a  poor  bass  do 
with  folk  like  these?  No  rest  for  him  !  His  life  is 
one  long  struggle  to  teach  his  neighbors  sense. 
But  through  all  his  toil  and  patient,  uncomplaining 
effort,  he  at  least  has  one  satisfaction  —  his  mis,- 


132  Sporting  Sketches 

sionary  work  is  peculiarly  effective.  Never  a  one  of 
them  all — be  it  bird,  beast,  or  bug  —  ever  requires 
a  second  course  of  his  potent  pedagogy. 

The  man  who  knows  his  craft  as  he  should  thor- 
oughly understands  all  these  minor  points.  He 
knows  what  the  large  and  small  mouth  black  bass 
will  take,  and  why,  and  when.  He  knows  that  the 
fish  seldom,  if  ever,  feed  freely  before  the  sun  has 
got  well  above  the  trees,  and  that  from  about  seven 
o'clock  till  eleven  is  the  best  of  the  morning.  Why 
then  the  early  start,  do  you  say  ?  Oh  !  well,  it  en- 
ables one  to  dodge  all  work  about  the  place,  to  enjoy 
the  best  part  of  the  day  on  the  water,  and  to  secure 
certain  requisite  baits.  Some  half  mile  from  the 
starting-point  the  canoe  halts,  where  a  small  stream 
flows  into  the  river.  Here  is  a  tiny  bay,  already 
golden  with  sunlight,  and  a  trifle  up  the  stream  is 
much  water-logged  rubbish.  A  can  and  minnow- 
tackle  are  produced,  and,  while  the  old  dog  goes 
prowling  after  a  possible  woodcock,  I  take  a  dozen 
plump  shiners.  The  next  move  is  for  crayfish.  These 
are  found  under  the  sunken  stuff,  but  the  taking  of 
them  is  an  art  known  only  to  the  experienced.  Frag- 
ment after  fragment  of  rotten  wood  is  cautiously 
raised  and  every  now  and  then  a  "  nipper  "  is  exposed. 
The  hand  steals  toward  a  victim,  which  is  deftly  se- 
cured. These  lobsters  of  fresh  water  bite  a  bit,  or  nip, 
or  whatever  their  pinching  process  may  be  termed, 
but  they  inflict  no  serious  damage.  Now  and  then 
one  takes  hold  along  the  soft  side  of  a  finger,  but 
rarely  is  the  skin  broken.  A  dozen  are  soon  secured 
and  then  the  trip  proper  is  resumed. 

I  now  have  these  baits,  —  worms,  minnows,  and 


The  Best  of  the  Bass  133 

crayfish,  and  all  are  good  at  their  proper  time.  Bass 
are  very  capricious  feeders.  Some  days  they  will 
greedily  take  what  they  may  have  refused  the  previ- 
ous day.  A  knowledge  of  this,  and  of  what  baits  may 
prove  tempting,  is  invaluable.  One  of  the  deadliest  of 
baits  is  a  big  white  grub  found  in  rotten  logs  and  sod. 
The  larvae  of  the  bumble-bee  and  wasp,  very  young 
mice,  grasshoppers,  and  small  frogs  are  all  tempt- 
ing upon  occasions.  The  fry  of  the  catfish,  too,  is 
in  some  waters  a  reliable  bait.  Upon  the  stream  in 
question  I  preferred  crayfish,  white  grubs,  minnows, 
and  worms,  in  order  as  mentioned,  and  I  always 
endeavored  to  have  at  least  three  of  these.  Now 
and  then  the  fly  tackle  was  called  into  play,  but  it 
was  always  unreliable. 

The  places  where  bass  are  sure  to  be  include  all 
types  of  submerged  trees  and  snags,  well-shaded 
spots  under  overhanging  trees  and  banks,  and  mats 
of  water-grasses  and  lily-pads.  In  the  stream  in 
question  a  fish  is  seldom  taken  from  open  water 
above  a  clean  bottom.  In  swift  streams  having 
rocky  bottoms  the  conditions  would  be  entirely 
different,  but  I  am  speaking  of  one  stream,  not  of 
bass  fishing  in  general.  The  advantage  of  a  thorough 
knowledge  of  the  water  is  of  the  greatest  importance. 
For  instance,  a  mile  upstream  a  big  stump  just 
shows  above  the  surface.  The  current  sets  in  there, 
and  the  spot  is  good  for  one  fish,  or  two,  if  one 
doesn't  make  too  much  row  over  the  first.  Two 
bends  above,  on  the  opposite  side,  a  big  basswood 
hangs  over  —  two  or  three  fish  there.  A  half  mile 
farther,  right  in  midstream  and  apparently  open 
water,  is  a  fine  spot.  Not  a  visible  vestige  of  a 


134  Sporting  Sketches 

snag  or  shelter  of  any  sort,  but  twenty  feet  below 
an  old  tree  lies  on  the  bottom.  Above  that  again 
is  a  small  bed  of  weeds.  At  first  glance  it  is  no 
good,  but  there  used  to  be  a  brickyard  above,  and 
the  stumps  of  two  piles  broken  off  below  water  yet 
remain.  About  these  is  a  lot  of  broken  brick,  all 
unseen,  and  it  is  a  good  place.  And  so  it  goes  from 
point  to  point  for  fully  ten  miles.  Almost  invari- 
ably the  fish  lie  on  that  side  to  which  the  current 
sets.  The  veteran  knows  this  and  changes  from 
side  to  side  of  the  stream  as  its  course  changes. 
A  novice  probably  would  select  a  pleasantly  shaded, 
bay-like  spot  on  the  wrong  side  and  fish  there  for 
hours,  taking  drum,  catfish,  dogfish,  mullet,  or  sun- 
fish,  but  at  the  most  only  an  occasional,  wandering 
bass.  The  black  fellows  lie  in  the  current,  with 
noses  upstream,  because  they  are  strong  pirates  and 
they  know  the  running  water  will  bring  prizes  their 
way.  When  a  bass  is  taken  at  some  unlikely-looking 
spot,  that  spot  should  be  kept  in  mind.  There  prob- 
ably is  some  unsuspected  shelter  below  which  even  the 
tackle  may  not  find.  In  any  event,  a  good  lair  for  one 
bass  is  apt  to  prove  equally  good  for  another  later  on. 
But  to  return  to  the  canoe.  A  clay  cliff  throws  a 
shadow  upon  deep  water  which  might  repay  a  trial. 
The  cliff  is  bored  with  rows  of  black  holes,  and  a 
cloud  of  sand-martins  wheels  on  tireless  wings. 
The  soft  muttering  of  dainty  throats  fills  the  air  as 
the  gentle  little  communists  weave  to  and  fro.  The 
rod  is  shipped  up  and  a  plump  shiner  selected. 
The  point  of  the  hook  is  passed  in  at  the  mouth, 
out  behind  the  gill-cover,  and  under  a  strap  of  skin 
behind  the  back  fin.  I  use  the  bait  'so,  because  I 


Tbe  Best  of  the  Bass  135 

have  found  it  works  well.  Of  course  a  bass  swal- 
lows a  minnow  head  first,  but  I  don't  want  him  to 
swallow  it.  That  means  a  mangled  bait  and  more 
or  less  trouble  to  recover  the  hook.  The  number 
of  minnows  is  limited ;  therefore  I  want,  if  possible, 
to  make  one  minnow  kill  two  fish.  When  a  bass 
grabs  my  minnow,  I  strike  smartly  and  take  chances. 
A  fish  so  hooked  forces  the  minnow  up  the  gimp 
and  out  of  the  way,  and  so  may  preserve  it  for  another 
turn.  The  third  cast  provokes  a  faint  strike,  not 
at  all  like  the  aggressive  dash  of  the  bass.  A  turn 
of  the  wrists  makes  a  swift  commotion  of  waters,  fol- 
lowed by  a  peculiar  steady  strain.  At  the  first  purr 
of  the  reel  the  dog  cocks  his  ears  and  eyes  the  wav- 
ering silk  with  keen  interest.  The  rod  goes  steadily 
backward,  and  foot  after  foot  of  silk  rises  from  the 
water.  Then  the  gimp,  and  then  a  long,  olive-green 
form,  trim  as  a  torpedo  boat  Two  long,  snipy  jaws, 
a  lean  bony  head,  a  glowing  eye,  and  —  flick !  The 
mangled  minnow  follows  the  slack  line  into  the  sun- 
light as  the  fish  vanishes  with  a  marvellous  sweep. 
A  gar,  and  where  two  or  three  of  this  kind  are  gath- 
ered together  is  no  place  for  a  decent  fisherman  with 
only  a  dozen  minnows.  The  gar  is  a  curious  but 
utterly  useless  fellow,  a  loafer  and  a  provoker  of  scaly 
language  withal.  Seldom  will  a  hook  hold  in  his 
bony  jaw,  and  should  it  hold  he  affords  but  brief 
play.  When  recovering  your  hook  his  mouth  feels 
like  a  barbed-wire  fence,  with  a  cat-brier  hanging  to 
it ;  so  wise  folk  only  shoot,  spear,  or  heave  rocks  at 
him.  The  dog  is  disgusted  —  he  knows  all  about 
gars  and  the  talk  which  they  incite.  He  also  has  a 
shrewd  idea  of  what  is  coming. 


136  Sporting  Sketches 

The  paddle  strokes  are  firmer  and  a  purl  of  music 
whispers  from  the  bow.  We  are  nearing,  hey !  old 
dog,  and  never  have  we  rounded  this  bend  without 
a  thrill  of  genuine  pleasure.  Look  at  it  and  say  can 
this  be  the  North  ?  The  liquid  floor  narrows  away 
like  a  mighty  lance-head  pointing  to  a  glory  of  daz- 
zling sunshine,  and  the  soft-draped  walls  receding 
in  perspective  true,  lower  and  soften  to  a  golden 
haze  of  the  distant  open.  Huge  velvet  shadows 
hang  like  windless  banners;  each  tree  seems  rooted 
to  a  tree  inverted,  and  over  all  is  flung  a  living  mesh 
of  vine  and  creeper,  bloom  and  bud  and  burnished 
leaf.  It  must  be  fairyland !  From  tents  of  green 
sound  silver  pipings  and  tinkles  of  tiny  revels.  A 
pause,  and  the  flutter  of  foliage  surely  is  the  clap- 
ping of  wee  hands.  It  is  fairyland  !  Yon  sun-dried 
pebble  by  the  water's  rim  takes  flight  and  curves 
away  on  trembling  pinions  which  shake  sweet  music 
from  them  as  they  go.  A  sandpiper  ?  Nonsense ! 

Hark !  —  Tick-turr !  tick-tick-turr !  A  fairy  clock 
hid  midst  those  leaves,  its  ruby  pendulum  swinging 
in  plain  view  ?  Absurd !  The  clock  has  stopped, 
and  yonder  the  pendulum,  a  dart  of  fire  winged  with 
ebon  smoke.  'Twas  the  tanager  swinging  on  a  liv- 
ing cord.  That  rattle  a  snare  drum  ?  See  where 
the  quick  ring  broadens.  'Twas  Alcyon  striking 
the  silver  galleons  of  the  dreamy  sea  of  this  our  land 
of  Spain.  Can  grief  be  here  ?  A  sobbing  sweet 
and  low,  a  hopeless  misery  floating  from  a  tender 
breast  too  rudely  torn  ;  a  mother  peering  through  the 
dingy  pane,  racked  by  raw  memories  and  the  joys 
of  others  which  she  may  not  share.  Oh  !  actor  dove, 
we  know  thy  sweet  deceit.  Thou  sham  of  arms 


The  Best  of  the  Bass  137 

bereft ;  thou  widow  of  one  dry  eye,  with  t'other  rov- 
ing for  a  comforter;  thou  male  with  female  voice 
and  gentle  wile.  Aye !  Pat  thy  fat  side  with  crafty 
wing  and  bow  thy  shapely  head  in  mock  humility 
—  all's  fair  in  love.  But  that  same  wing  can  whistle 
in  arrow-flight,  and  strike  full  lustily  should  swear- 
ing trooper  squirrel  thrust  his  bold  nose  above  the 
twig-wove  platform  where  two  white  eggs  lie.  A 
rasping  jar — a  cymbal  lightly  clashed;  a  form  of 
steel  and  bronze  o'erlaid  on  jet,  a  heavy  flight,  a 
gleam  of  an  eye  like  a  diamond  flashing  from  its 
kindred  coal ;  a  tail  awry  which  seems  to  drag  like 
an  idle  oar  —  the  grackle.  From  an  unseen  meadow 
above  floats  a  sound  as  though  some  sprite  had  stolen 
a  string  of  gold  and  silver  bells  and  was  madly  rac- 
ing hither  and  thither  from  keen  pursuit.  But  let  us 
leave  the  bobolinks,  and  their  neighbors  the  larks  and 
sparrows,  the  orioles,  thrushes,  catbirds,  warblers, 
finches,  climbers,  and  what  not.  The  air  is  vibrant 
with  their  voices,  but  we  are  not  a-birding  to-day. 
Here  is  the  spot,  it  is  the  hour,  and  Don  and  I  are 
the  people. 
A  log  — 

Half  sunk  in  the  slimy  wave, 
Rots  slowly  away  in  its  living  grave, 

And  the  green  moss  creeps  o'er  its  dull  decay 
Hiding  the  mouldering  dust  away 

Like  the  hand  that  plants  o'er  the  tomb  a  flower 
Or  the  ivy  that  mantles  the  fallen  tower. 

Don  is  all  expectancy  as  the  canoe  is  drawn  up 
and  the  tackle  adjusted.  Next  to  actual  shooting 
he  loves  fishing,  and  he  sits  with  wrinkled  forehead 
in  such  patience  as  he  can  muster.  I  decide  to  try 


138  Sporting  Sketches 

minnow  first,  and  while  I  am  arranging  the  bait 
there  comes  a  sudden  splash  as  though  from  some- 
where a  brick  had  fallen.  Out  of  the  tail  of  one  eye 
I  see  a  shiner  skip  over  the  surface  from  the  imme- 
diate vicinity  of  a  heavy  swirl.  Good  enough  !  It's 
minnow  he's  after,  so  the  bait  is  right  anyhow.  In 
a  moment  my  minnow  is  out  far  beyond  the  ripple 
and  coming  in  with  a  wavering  motion  produced  by 
slightly  shaking  the  rod.  But  the  cast  is  a  blank. 
Another,  too,  fails,  so  I  study  for  a  moment.  That 
fish  is  under  the  log,  is  the  decision  ;  so  the  minnow 
is  cast  perilously  near  the  shelter.  Another  failure. 
At  this  moment  I  notice  something.  Looking  from 
the  dense  shadow  toward  the  sunlit  outer  water,  I 
mark  an  unexpected  snag  some  yards  to  one  side. 
Mebbe  he's  there,  I  think,  as  the  minnow  again  goes 
out.  Still  no  result.  Now  comes  the  advantage  of 
a  variety  of  baits.  A  crayfish  is  impaled,  and  at 
once  there's  a  sharp  strike  and  the  rod  arches.  A 
moment's  feel  of  things  proves  that  whatever  is  on 
the  hook  is  no  black  bass.  A  brief  struggle,  and  a 
square-built  rock  bass  comes  to  the  surface.  Don 
is  dancing  with  excitement,  but  a  word  sends  him 
down.  His  time  is  not  yet.  The  big-eyed  captive 
is  promptly  killed,  then  the  pipe  is  lit,  the  water 
meanwhile  getting  a  few  moments'  rest  —  always  a 
wise  plan.  As  I  hook  a  crayfish  by  passing  the 
barb  through  the  mouth  and  out  through  the  tail 
(which  gives  the  natural  curve  and  insures  the  bait 
going  downward  tail  first,  as  it  should)  the  same 
bait  serves  twice,  it  having  slipped  up  the  gimp  out 
of  the  way.  But  it  fails.  Another  bait  is  wanted, 
so  I  climb  the  bank  and  find  a  half-rotten  log.  To 


The  Best  of  the  Bass  139 

heave  this  over  is  the  work  of  a  moment,  and  as 
the  fragments  fall  apart  three  or  four  fat  white  grubs 
are  revealed.  I  impale  one  of  these  and  cast  it  to 
the  edge  of  the  shadowed  water.  Whether  the  bait 
is  actually  pitched  into  a  bass's  mouth  is  problem- 
atical. It  certainly  looks  that  way.  A  strike  so 
savage  as  to  make  me  fairly  jump,  and  the  fight  is 
on.  This  is  the  best  of  the  bass !  With  a  rush  he 
goes  for  his  lair,  and  with  a  twitch  I  plant  the  steel 
and  feel  it  take  hold.  A  second's  breathless  pause, 
and  then  the  royal  fellow  realizes  what  has  happened. 
Whiz !  and  he  is  away  like  an  arrow,  while  the  silk 
hums  through  the  guides,  and  the  reel  voices  a 
startled  shriek.  Well  I  know  there  is  no  fray  any- 
where, so  gradually  the  check  is  put  on.  Tense  as 
wire  stands  the  silken  tether,  while  the  rod  arches 
till  it  seems  as  if  something  surely  must  give  way. 
Five  anxious  seconds  —  then  whish !  up  he  comes 
fairly  into  the  sunshine.  A  gleam  of  bronzy  mail,  a 
bristle  of  angry  fins,  a  patter  of  falling  drops,  and 
plunk!  —  he  has  gone.  But  not  far.  Wise  man 
never  yanked  at  fish  like  this,  so  instinctively  I  have 
eased  him  down  and  away  upon  his  second  run. 
A  fierce  zigzagging,  a  worrying,  backward  pulling, 
a  vain  effort  to  bore  to  the  log  below,  another  dash, 
then  up  he  comes  again. 

Have  you  seen  him  —  the  length  and  the  breadth 
and  the  mad  of  him  —  and  is  this  business,  or  is 
it  not  better  than  pawing  coin  or  thumbing  bills  ? 
The  dog  is  a  picture.  He  stands  trembling  with 
excitement,  his  blazing  eyes  following  every  move- 
ment. As  the  fish  leaps  he  stiffens  in  every  fibre ; 
as  it  falls  back  his  muscles  slacken  to  the  fear  that 


140  Sporting  Sketches 

the  prize  is  lost.  Heart  and  soul  he  is  with  his 
master  in  a  game  he  cannot  fathom,  and  he  can 
barely  contain  himself.  A  leap  and  a  grab  might 
help,  but  he  has  not  been  called  upon,  so  he  suffers 
and  whimpers  and  dances  in  an  agony  of  uncertainty. 
But  the  headlong  scrimmage  slackens  to  an  obsti- 
nate resistance.  "  You've  asked  for  it,  you  beauty ; 
now  you'll  get  it,"  I  mutter  as  I  shake  him  up.  One 
minute  of  doubt,  and  slowly,  proudly,  like  the  king 
he  is,  he  yields,  and  a  white  ray  flashes  from  his 
snowy  belly. 

A  low  cluck  electrifies  the  dog  —  'tis  a  well-under- 
stood signal.  With  a  visible  effort  he  restrains  his 
impulse  to  rush,  and  steadily  marches  to  the  water 
and  in  up  to  his  shoulders.  Cautiously  the  fish  is 
towed  within  his  reach,  and  wise  from  a  previous 
experience  with  fins,  he  grips  it  by  the  belly  and 
carefully  bears  it  ashore.  Is  he  proud?  Does  he 
understand  ?  Look  at  him !  He  has  waited  long 
for  this,  the  crowning  moment,  and  as  the  released 
victim  flip-flaps  in  the  grass,  he  dances  an  accom- 
paniment of  quadrupedal  joy  unmeasured.  Then 
he  shakes  himself,  takes  a  roll,  and  comes  twisting 
and  mincing,  with  deep,  gusty  breaths  which  say 
as  plain  as  words,  "  We  caught  that  bass  !  " 

There  were  other  battles  and  other  triumphs  — 
five  more  in  all  —  but  let  the  one  suffice.  Great 
fish  they  were,  too,  as  they  tugged  the  cord  which 
bound  them  in  a  shadowed  nook.  But  only  a  half 
dozen  ?  Aye !  Why  more  ?  Two  for  friends, 
three  for  home,  and  room  for  one  inside.  A  tiny 
fire  mid  the  green,  a  lounge  arid  a  smoke  on  a 
scented  couch,  a  search  of  a  thicket  for  information 


The  Best  of  the  Bass  141 

of  interest  to  man  and  dog;  then  hey,  for  the  chase 
of  the  paling  west  into  the  evening  land.  Let  the 
fragrant  shadows  creep,  who  cares  ?  The  bow  is 
singing  a  foamy  lullaby,  the  craft  is  skimming  o'er 
liquid  gold,  the  white  puffs  swiftly  float  astern ;  'tis 
well,  my  lords. 

But  your  feet  are  wet !  —  who  cares  ?  Your 
breeches  are  all  green  from  grass  and  moss  !  What 
of  it  —  it's  what  they're  for  —  who  cares?  But  you 
haven't  done  a  stroke  of  work  to-day  !  Who  cares  ? 
But  there's  the  garden  patch  not  dug  yet !  Who 
cares  ?  That  big  fantailed  bass  weighs  plump  five 
pounds  —  goldfish  wouldn't  buy  forgiveness  like  that 
fellow  1  Do  you  understand  ? 


<0>IF 


MUCH-NAMED,  not  infrequently  much  overrated, 
and  not  seldom  much-abused,  this  fish  occupies  a 
rather  ambiguous  position  among  those  species, 
which  by  virtue  of  certain  fighting  qualities  have 
earned  recognition  as  game-fish.  Greatest  of  our 
pike,  and  a  veritable  freebooter  of  fresh  water,  he 
has  his  full  share  of  that  strength,  speed,  and  vorac- 
ity which  have  earned  for  his  relatives  the  rather 
doubtful  notoriety  they  enjoy.  The  term  "wolf  of 
fresh  water "  is  not  so  far  amiss  as  at  first  glance  it 
might  appear.  Scientific  authorities  have  decided 
that  the  mascalonge  and  its  near  relative,  the  great 
northern  pickerel,  shall  be  respectively  known  as 
Lucius  masquinongy  and  Lucius  lucius. 

The  'lunge  is  found  in  the  Great  Lakes,  their 
tributaries,  the  waters  of  the  St.  Lawrence  basin, 
and  the  Wisconsin  lakes.  Wherever  its  habitat,  it 
is  the  same  old  lusty  pike,  the  savage  of  unsalted 
seas,  and  a  holy  terror  to  any  other  fish  small 
enough  to  fit  inside  of  it.  Just  how  large  the 
'lunge  grows  probably  is  an  open  question  —  eighty 
odd  pounds  would  be  about  the  limit.  I  have  seen 
one  which  scaled  a  trifle  over  fifty  pounds. 

The  sportsmanlike  methods  of  taking  this  fish 
are  trolling  with  the  rod  and  the  long  handline,  and 

142 


A  Matter  of  Mascalonge  143 

both  frequently  afford  the  liveliest  of  lively  sport. 
Occasionally  a  medium-sized  specimen  surprises 
some  angler  who  is  using  live  minnow  bait  for 
bass,  but  such  an  event  would  be  somewhat  in  the 
nature  of  an  accident. 

The  variations  of  the  name  are  rather  curious, 
but  they  may  be  at  least  partially  explained  by  the 
uncertainty  whether  the  original  name  was  Chip- 
pewa,  French,  or  a  mongrel  blend  of  the  two 
tongues.  The  Indians  call  it  "  maskinonje,"  the 
French  "masque  allonge,"  and  these  throughout 
the  extensive  range  of  the  fish  are  varied  into  mas- 
calonge,  muscalonge,  muskellunge,  muskallonge, 
maskinonge,  and  masquinongy.  For  convenience, 
anglers  use  the  abbreviation  "  'lunge." 

The  fish  is  subject  to  much  variation  in  color, 
but  this  is  a  matter  of  locality  and  by  no  means  to 
be  depended  upon  should  one  be  asked  to  decide  if 
some  big  captive  is  a  'lunge  or  a  specimen  of  the 
closely  allied  great  northern  pickerel.  The  mem- 
brane of  the  lower  margin  of  the  gill-cover  is  more 
reliable.  In  the  'lunge,  it  is  furnished  on  either 
side  with  seventeen  to  nineteen  bony  rays  to  facili- 
tate closing  and  opening  the  gills.  These  bony  rays, 
termed  branchiostegals,  spread  and  furl  the  mem- 
branes at  the  fish's  pleasure,  somewhat  as  the  ribs 
of  an  umbrella  or  the  sticks  of  a  fan  perform  their 
function.  The  great  northern  pickerel  has  from 
fourteen  to  sixteen  of  them,  while  the  eastern  pick- 
erel (L.  reticulatus),  and  the  western,  or  grass  pick- 
erel (L.  vermiculatus],  have  twelve  or  thirteen. 

An  easier  identification  mark,  however,  is  found 
on  the  cheeks  and  gill-cover.  In  the  mascalonge 


144  Sporting  Sketches 

the  upper  half  of  cheek  and  gill-cover  is  scaled, 
while  the  lower  half  of  both  is  naked.  The  pike 
has  a  gill-cover  scaled  like  the  'lunge's,  but  the 
entire  cheek  is  scaled.  The  eastern  and  grass  pick- 
erel have  cheek  and  gill-covers  scaled  all  over. 
Hence  if  only  the  upper  half  of  the  fish's  cheek 
is  scaled,  it  is  a  'lunge ;  if  the  entire  cheek  and  half 
the  gill-cover  show  scales,  the  specimen  is  a  great 
northern  pike.  Young  mascalonge  are  distinctly 
spotted  with  blackish  on  a  greenish  or  grayish 
ground.  The  mature  fish  shows  less  distinct 
markings,  although  they  usually  are  discernible  in 
the  region  of  the  tail.  I  have,  however,  seen  big, 
old  fish  upon  which  the  eye  could  detect  no  spot, 
the  general  color  being  grayish  green  with  a  few 
dim  reflections.  Again,  I  have  seen  fine  fish  of  a 
nondescript  tint,  as  like  that  of  an  old,  dry  rubber 
boot  as  anything  I  can  think  of.  The  young  and 
old  of  the  great  northern  pike  have  the  sides  marked 
with  oval  whitish  or  yellowish  spots,  several  shades 
lighter  than  the  ground  color  —  hence,  a  fish  with 
spots  darker  than  the  ground  color  is  a  'lunge;  with 
lighter  spots,  a  northern  pike.  I  have  dwelt  upon 
these  distinctive  marks  in  the  hope  that  what  has 
been  said  may  aid  in  clearing  away  a  bit  of  the  mis- 
understanding concerning  these  two  fine  fish.  If  the 
inexperienced  angler  will  remember  about  the  scales 
of  the  cheeks  and  gill  covers  and  the  color  of  the 
spots,  he  should  make  no  error  in  his  identification. 
The  'lunge  and  his  nearest  kin  are  remorseless 
destroyers  of  other  fish.  Like  so  many  old-time 
robbers  of  the  Rhine,  they  have,  their  strongholds 
from  which  to  dash  forth  and  raise  havoc  with  the 


A  Matter  of  Mascalonge  145 

unfortunate  wayfarer  that  may  chance  within  view. 
The  piscivorous  habit  is  strongly  suggested  by  a 
startling  array  of  teeth,  long  and  sharp,  of  various 
sizes,  and  so  arranged  that  any  fish  fairly  seized  can 
see  his  finish  without  half  looking. 

There  is  something  tigerish  about  the  method  of 
this  grim  destroyer.  Is  there  a  big  nest  of  water 
weeds,  or  a  handy  clump  of  rushes,  such  as  might 
readily  conceal  a  few  feet  of  huge  rubber  hose  ? 
Then  swim  wide  of  that  spot,  ye  fat,  lazy,  fool  fishes, 
for  this  particular  brand  of  rubber  hose  is  open  only 
at  one  end,  and  that  end  carries  a  contrivance  that 
grippeth  like  a  bear  trap  with  freshly  filled  teeth,  and 
moreover,  the  trap  seems  to  be  always  set. 

The  crafty  'lunge  knows  how  well  his  long  body 
blends  with  all  water  growths ;  that  one  sweep  of  his 
always  ready,  mighty  caudal  will  send  him  speeding 
forth  as  though  shot  from  a  mortar,  and  that  nothing 
upon  which  his  wide  jaws  can  make  good  their 
deadly  grip  is  too  big  for  him  to  tackle.  Silent, 
motionless  as  a  set  spring,  he  waits  in  his  ambush 
until  a  sizable  victim  drifts  within  range.  The 
cruel  eyes  glow  like  wee  incandescent  lamps,  but  the 
careless  prey  sees  them  not,  or  if  he  does,  mistakes 
them  for  two  sparks  of  sunlight  filtering  through  the 
tangled  greenery.  It  is  wondrous  pleasant  there  in 
the  velvet  shade  cast  by  the  whispering  rushes  for- 
ever writing  at  the  grand  blue  scroll  above.  From 
this  same  well-found  shade,  too,  he  can  peer  far  out 
through  the  sunlit  water  and  maybe  make  a  small 
raid  on  yonder  fairy  fleet,  where  the  silver  galleons 
of  the  shiners  drift  on  their  lazy  course.  "  I  will 
tarry  awhile,"  thinks  the  visitor  fish. 


146  Sporting  Sketches 

Indeed  he  will !  Whish !  Zip !  The  startled 
rushes  sway  and  twist  as  the  big,  bent  tail  sweeps 
through  its  marvellous  stroke ;  a  swift  hollow  forms 
upon  the  oily  surface,  the  sleepy,  vertical  shadows 
suddenly  wake  and  dance  in  frenzy ;  there  is  a  thrill 
of  action  for  yards  about,  above ;  below,  there  is 
bloody  murder !  A  tiny  silvery  bubble  rises  to  the 
surface,  bursts,  and  leaves  an  iridescent  patch.  That 
much  slipped  out  between  the  gripping  jaws.  A  few 
feet  under,  a  dim  greenish  form  drifts  back  from  outer 
shades  and  lazily  noses  its  way  through  the  cover 
until  it  is  again  headed  toward  the  open.  Then 
silently,  like  the  shadow  marking  the  sun's  decline, 
it  rises  among  the  yielding  stems  till  at  a  certain 
point  all  motion  ceases.  The  trap  is  reset ! 

Perhaps  again  and  again  will  the  drama  be 
repeated,  for  the  'lunge  is  a  gluttonous  feeder. 
While  it,  of  course,  is  impossible  to  figure  out  the 
destruction  with  any  like  accuracy,  it  must  be  no 
trifle.  And  the  worst  part  of  it  is  that  the  bulk  of 
the  victims  are  good-sized  fish,  old  enough  to  repro- 
duce their  kind,  hence  of  infinitely  greater  value 
than  mere  fry. 

The  unsportsmanlike  methods  of  taking  the  'lunge 
are  shooting  and  spearing.  The  shooting  usually 
is  not  so  murderous  as  it  might  appear;  in  fact  it 
is  none  too  easy  when  the  work  is  done  with  a 
rifle.  A  slowly  moving  or  even  a  motionless  fish 
is  a  very  deceptive  mark  owing  to  the  fact  that  it 
almost  invariably  appears  to  be  about  four  inches 
above  its  actual  position.  The  refractive  power  of 
water  has  caused  many  a  good  shot  to  miss  what 
should  have  been  an  easy  mark,  and  of  course,  the 


A  Matter  of  Mascalonge  147 

greater  the  distance  and  the  sharper  the  angle,  the 
more  difficulty  about  driving  lead  into  the  water. 
In  point  of  fact,  a  green  hand  will  earn  no  glory 
shooting  'lunge,  for,  unless  he  can  get  almost  directly 
above  his  fish,  he  will  be  very  apt  to  blunder. 

Nor  will  a  keen  and  experienced  man  accomplish 
any  serious  destruction,  for  a  single  good  fish  would 
be  a  notable  result  of  a  day's  skirmishing  along  the 
stream.  Big  'lunge  are  only  occasionally  seen,  and  a 
glimpse  of  one  is  no  guarantee  of  a  sure  chance  to 
follow.  The  man  with  a  rifle  wants  only  big  fish,  and 
he  may  watch  a  stream  all  day  and  nearly  every  day 
for  a  month  and  not  get  one  fair  chance.  When 
the  'lunge  are  running  upstream  the  position  of  a 
heavy  fish  usually  is  betrayed  by  a  steadily  advanc- 
ing furrow  on  the  surface.  With  his  eye  upon  this 
telltale,  the  man  with  the  rifle  skirmishes  along  the 
bank,  keeping  well  concealed  and  always  endeavor- 
ing to  gain  some  commanding  point  from  which  he 
may  look,  and  should  circumstances  warrant,  shoot 
down. 

Such  points  may  be  few  and  far  apart,  and  the 
'lunge  may  take  a  notion  to  swim  deeper,  or  hug 
the  farther  side  of  the  stream  while  passing,  which 
demands  that  the  man  shall  shift  ground  and  en- 
deavor to  plan  another  ambush  farther  up.  This 
sort  of  thing  may  be  continued  during  an  entire 
morning  and  no  chance  be  offered;  in  fact,  the 
odds  are  always  in  favor  of  the  fish.  A  missed  fish 
seldom  gives  a  second  chance.  As  it  is  quite  pos- 
sible to  follow  the  wake  of  a  fish  for  miles,  to  see 
the  intended  victim  in  the  wrong  place  perhaps  a 
dozen  times,  and  eventually  to  lose  him  because 


148  Sporting  Sketches 

you  feared  the  risk  of  one  or  two  doubtful  chances, 
the  shooting  of  the  'lunge  is  a  feat  seldom  per- 
formed. 

Spearing  during  the  same  season  is  well-nigh  as 
uncertain.  Some  old  hands  at  the  game  take  very 
long-hafted  spears  and  go  sit  at  some  handy  spot 
from  about  dawn  till  as  long  as  they  can  stand  it. 
Others  take  chances  with  the  short  throwing  spear, 
and,  needless  to  say,  seldom  take  much  more  than 
the  chances. 

The  spearing  through  the  ice  inside  a  dark  shanty 
is  another  method  of  the  market  fisher.  He  sits 
there  smoking  and  playing  the  decoy  and  praying 
for  "  Night  or  Blucher,"  and  Blucher  may  be  afar 
off  and  hotly  engaged  in  some  unknown  corner  of 
what  is  doomed  to  be  a  sure  enough  Waterloo. 
Meantime  the  watcher  peers  steadily  down  into  a 
mystery  of  green  vagueness,  through  which  extend 
ghostly  growths  like  the  wraiths  of  tropic  forests. 
Flashes  of  silver  light  wink  like  aquatic  fireflies 
and  tell  where  burnished  fry  are  playing,  and  pos- 
sibly a  yellow  perch  lances  across  the  view  and 
instructs  the  young  idea  that  rod,  pole,  and  perch 
are  measures  of  deadly  accuracy  when  used  in 
finny  schools.  And  after  the  fisher  has  grown  to 
feel  like  the  brown  man  of  old,  upon  whose  original 
invention  his  method  is  a  glaring  infringement, 
there  comes  a  change. 

The  small  fry  disappear  in  some  mysterious  man- 
ner best  known  to  themselves.  There  is  a  sort  of 
glow  in  the  water  and  from  under  the  ice  slowly 
slides  a  peculiar  something.  If -the  man  with  the 
spear  be  wise  and  ironed  instead  of  nerved,  he  will 


A  Matter  of  Mascalonge  149 

play  the  decoy  between  his  feet  and  coax  the  fish 
six  inches  farther.  Right  where  his  neck,  if  he  had 
one,  would  be,  is  the  spot,  and  one  must  not  be 
afraid  of  hitting  him  too  hard.  I've  heard — of 
course  it's  mere  hearsay  and  perhaps  untrue — there's 
a  way  of  putting  a  bit  too  much  strength  to  it,  miss- 
ing the  fish,  and  following  head-first  after  the  spear. 
I  cannot  recommend  this.  There's  a  lack  of  venti- 
lation and  a  prevalence  of  cold  and  damp  down 
under  there  which  are  undesirable,  if  not  positively 
dangerous.  Getting  wet  up  to  his  ankles  may  be  a 
trifling  matter  to  a  robust  man,  but  I  suspect  a  good 
deal  depends  upon  which  end  of  him  he  measures 
from.  A  man  may  wet  two  of  his  soles  with  im- 
punity, but  the  third  never  requires  water  unless  — 
but  maybe  that's  getting  too  far  ahead. 

In  trolling  for  'lunge  the  old-fashioned  handline 
and  spoon-hook  may  be  depended  upon,  but  the 
method  lacks  the  science  which  the  use  of  a  trolling 
rod  demands.  I  have  done  a  lot  of  it,  and  I  prefer 
to  go  alone  and  do  my  own  paddling,  or  rowing. 
A  turn  of  the  line  around  the  thigh  enables  you  to 
feel  all  attacks  on  the  lure,  while  leaving  both  hands 
free  for  the  paddle,  or  oars ;  and  at  the  same  time 
the  line  is  where  you  can  find  it  without  loss  of 
time.  This  is  important,  for  the  resistance  of  a 
heavy  fish,  aided  by  the  forward  motion  of  the  craft, 
will  tauten  a  line  to  the  danger-point  before  you 
have  time  for  many  motions  of  your  hand.  While 
paddling,  I  make  fast  the  paddle  by  a  short  cord,  so 
it  can  safely  be  dropped  at  any  point  of  the  stroke. 
When  once  fast  to  a  good  fish  I  seldom  bother 
about  the  paddle  for  turning,  as  there  is  a  way  of 


150  Sporting  Sketches 

swinging  a  light  craft  head  on  to  a  taut  line  which 
is  understood  by  all  familiar  with  canoes  and  skirls. 
An  old  pair  of  gloves  is  no  bad  protection,  for  a  line 
sometimes  cuts  bare  hands. 

It  is  impossible  to  give  anything  like  detailed  in- 
structions regarding  the  playing  of  a  fish  on  a  hand- 
line.  A  small  fellow  may  be  unceremoniously  hauled 
in  hand  over  hand;  a  big  one  must  be  humored. 
I  believe  in  keeping  at  a  fish  all  the  time,  taking  no 
too  pronounced  liberties  and  allowing  him  none. 
So  long  as  a  firm,  even  hold  be  maintained  on  him, 
he  is  doomed,  if  the  hooks  are  planted  where  they 
should  be.  Anything  like  jerking  should  not  be 
allowed  at  either  end  of  the  string,  for  one  stiff  jerk 
may  play  havoc.  Only  over-excitement  or  rotten 
tackle  is  responsible  for  the  loss  of  a  well-hooked 
fish.  On  a  handline  a  big  fish  might  demand  ten 
or  fifteen  minutes  of  play  —  I  should  say  an  allow- 
ance of  about  one-half  minute  per  pound  would  be 
about  his  limit.  I  know  many  men  tell  of  much 
longer  struggles,  but  I  never  have  seen  them.  The 
fact  is  a  man  fast  to  a  big  'lunge  is  apt  to  be  mighty 
poor  indeed  as  a  judge  of  time.  It's  like  the  answer 
of  the  benedict  to  the  bachelor  who  asked  if  statistics 
showed  that  married  men  lived  longer  than  single 
men  —  "  Mebbe  it  only  seems  longer." 

A  good  rod  for  'lunge  is  a  high-grade  split 
bamboo,  or  an  ash  and  lancewood,  nine  feet  long 
and  weighing  twelve  ounces.  This,  with  a  multiply- 
ing reel  of  good  make  and  about  seventy-five  yards 
of  plaited  "  No.  3,"  or  "  E  "  silk  line,  and  a  No.  03 
Sproat,  tied  on  gimp,  will  do-  the  business.  A 
large  minnow,  or  a  frog,  makes  a  deadly  bait,  but 


A  Matter  of  Mascalonge  151 

many  prefer  a  large  trolling  spoon  having  a  single 
hook.  Triple  hooks  for  'lunge  are  a  nuisance.  All 
baits  for  'lunge  should  be  moved  slowly  ;  a  common 
fault  of  trollers  with  the  handline  is  sending  the 
boat  along  too  rapidly.  An  excellent  rule  is  to 
make  as  little  noise  and  fuss  as  possible.  From  a 
boat  pulled  silently  about  twenty-five  yards  outside 
the  weeds  the  bait  can  be  cast  to  their  very  edge 
and  slowly  drawn  away ;  I  prefer,  however,  to  troll 
along  the  edge,  and  by  this  method  cover  the  most 
water  with  the  least  disturbance.  Because  a  fish 
does  not  strike  is  no  guarantee  that  it  is  not  there, 
and  for  this  reason  I  return  to  a  good-looking  place 
after  a  reasonable  interval. 

As  soon  as  possible  after  the  'lunge  bites  is  the 
time  to  strike,  and  the  moment  the  fish  is  hooked 
the  rower  should  make  for  open  water.  If  this  be 
delayed,  there  may  be  trouble,  for  the  'lunge  is  apt 
to  play  the  deuce  if  he  can  get  to  cover.  A  good 
boatman  will  watch  every  move  of  the  game  and 
take  full  advantage  of  every  chance  to  assist  the 
angler.  Too  few  men  are  reliable  with  the  gaff. 
It  should  be  cautiously  passed  under  the  fish  —  this 
cannot  be  done  too  slowly  and  carefully  —  and  then 
sent  home  into  the  throat,  with  a  smoothly  swift, 
upward  sweep.  So  soon  as  the  fish  has  been  boated 
it  should  be  rapped  on  the  head  and  a  knife  blade 
passed  through  the  spine  just  back  of  the  head. 
This  most  effectually  will  prevent  any  unexpected 
flopping  about,  for  a  fish  so  treated  is  dead  —  not 
merely  stunned. 

The  best  fish  ever  I  killed  was  taken  in  Rondeau 
Harbor,  on  the  Canadian  side  of  Lake  Erie.  While 


152  Sporting  Sketches 

from  appearances  the  Eau  should  be  an  ideal  water, 
comparatively  few,  but  usually  large  fish  are  taken 
from  it.  Upon  the  day  in  question  I  had  trolled 
with  the  handline  around  one  end  of  the  harbor,  a 
distance  of  several  miles.  There  was  a  broad  bor- 
der of  marsh,  and  plenty  of  weeds  in  the  water,  but 
the  great  trouble  was  an  overabundance  of  bass. 
These  were  fine  fish,  but  I  felt  like  Hiawatha,  and 
craved  the  big  fellow. 

When  I  reached  the  entrance  to  the  harbor,  the 
lighthouse  keeper  hailed  me,  and  after  refusing  some 
fish  because  he  could  catch  more  than  he  could  use, 
he  asked :  — 

"  Why  don't  you  try  at  the  inner  end  of  the  piers 
for  a  big  fellow  ?  Anybody  could  kill  them  things!  " 
—  the  things  referred  to  being  some  very  fair  bass. 

For  a  moment  I  fancied  he  was  putting  up  a  job, 
for  the  spot  indicated  was  unpromising  for  'lunge, 
but  he  was  in  earnest  and  I  knew  better  than  to 
dispute  his  knowledge.  If  you  are  going  to  do  a 
thing  at  all,  you  may  as  well  do  it  thoroughly  —  so 
I  did.  For  an  hour  I  paddled  back  and  forth,  tak- 
ing a  couple  of  good  bass,  but  receiving  no  word 
from  the  desired  big  fellow.  At  last,  when  I  had 
about  decided  to  give  it  up,  the  keeper  hailed  me. 

"  You  go  too  fast,"  he  said.  "  Work  clear  down 
past  that  big  clump  of  rushes,  turn  it,  and  come 
back  here  and  see  what  you  do.  Go  slow,  now,"  he 
concluded. 

It  seemed  a  foolish  task,  but  I  went  as  directed, 
slipped  round  the  rushes  and  headed  back.  Some- 
body must  have  applied  for  a  stay  of  proceedings, 
for  on  a  sudden  everything  was  brought  up  standing. 


A  Matter  of  Mascaknge  153 

"  Strange  there  should  be  a  snag  out  here,"  was  the 
first  thought ;  for  the  line  had  tautened  like  a  harp- 
string.  But  just  then  the  snag  got  busy,  and  I 
grabbed  the  string  and  hung  on  to  everything  but 
a  yell  which  broke  away  and  ripped  the  sun-kissed 
silence  plumb  to  the  distant  woods.  Had  I  not 
known  that  horses  didn't  graze  so  deep,  I  might 
have  imagined  that  I  had  hooked  up  somebody's 
three-minute  stepper. 

There  was  no  mistaking  the  nature  of  the  captive, 
for  the  way  he  fought  for  the  weeds  betrayed  him, 
while  nothing  in  that  water  save  a  sturgeon  or  a 
'lunge  could  pull  as  he  did.  Headed  off  in  his  rush 
for  cover  he  presently  steamed  for  open  water,  and 
the  way  the  canoe  followed  was  a  caution  to  behold. 
For  minute  after  minute  he  pulled  and  I  hung  on, 
getting  a  foot  or  so  of  line  now  and  then.  Eventu- 
ally he  appeared  to  abandon  all  hope  of  getting  to 
the  weeds,  and  made  for  the  end  of  the  piers.  I 
knew  there  were  stones  and  snags  in  that  vicinity, 
and  so  handled  him  as  roughly  as  I  dared,  but  he 
had  almost  entered  the  danger  zone  before  he  gave 
any  sign  of  weakening.  Finally  his  efforts  became 
erratic,  then  feeble,  and  he  drew,  log-like,  close  along- 
side, though  still  refusing  to  keel  over  and  expose 
that  white  badge  of  surrender  which  I  was  mighty 
keen  to  spy. 

"  Gaff  him,  man  !  Quick !  "  shouted  the  keeper ; 
but  I  had  no  gaff. 

The  'lunge  was  so  big  he  almost  scared  me.  His 
bristling  teeth  were  too  horrible  to  contemplate  in 
connection  with  fingers  through  his  gills,  and  for  a 
moment  I  hesitated.  Then,  grasping  the  paddle,  I 


154  Sporting  Sketches 

lifted  steadily  with  one  hand,  while  the  paddle  went 
slowly  over  my  shoulder.  It  was  risky,  but  it  had 
to  be. 

"  Don't !  Don't !  You  -  condemned  -  fool  -  you'll  - 
lose  — ! "  howled  the  keeper,  but  his  protest  was 
unheeded. 

In  all  probability  the  strain  I  was  under  somehow 
got  into  my  arm,  for  the  only  fish  that  possibly 
could  endure  such  a  clip  must  surely  be  a  fossil  and 
one  of  the  toughest  propositions  in  its  line.  As  it 
was,  the  thin-edged  paddle  bit  clear  through  the 
spine  several  inches  back  of  the  head  instead  of 
where  I  aimed,  but  I  cared  little  about  that.  It 
wasn't  my  spine,  but  it  was  my  paddle  and  my  fish, 
and  when  a  man  can't  paddle  his  own  fish  the  way 
he  has  a  mind  to,  things  have  got  out  of  stroke. 

The  light  keeper  didn't  like  it.  He  said  that 
nobody  but  several  sorts  of  blank  fools  ever  landed 
fish  that  way.  When  I  assured  him  I'd  have  landed 
harder  if  I  could  have  got  more  of  a  swing,  it  didn't 
improve  matters. 

"  Why  didn't  you  grab  his  gills  ?  Them  there 
teeth  look  sassy,  but  they  can't  actooally  hurt 
nothin' ! "  he  continued  as  he  poked  his  fingers 
into  the  big  mouth  which  I  was  holding  open  for 
a  better  view. 

I  always  claimed  the  fish  slipped  in  my  hands, 
but  he  swore  —  quite  a  lot  too  —  that  I  clapped  the 
jaws  shut. 


(DDflAIPTEK 


HILL  planned  the  whole  business.  When  he 
does  a  thing  it  is  well  done.  He  is  a  liberal,  round, 
and  merry  soul,  who  revels  in  providing  fun  for 
others  and  a  small  share  for  himself.  Incidentally, 
he  is  a  very  skilful  angler,  a  man  who  has  fished  for 
many  years,  and  who  knows  the  ways  of  salmon, 
trout,  'lunge,  and  black-bass  as  well  as  he  knows 
how  to  circumvent  big  sea-bass,  "blues,"  weakfish, 
or  anything  else  worth  bothering  about  in  the 
waters  contiguous  to  Gotham. 

None  of  his  guests  was  let  into  the  secret  till  the 
last  moment,  so  I  was  rather  astonished  when  he 
began  to  warble  over  the  'phone.  The  burden  of 
his  song  was  that  a  party  should  go  down  to  the  sea 
in  a  ship  of  his  providing  —  in  fact,  be  his  guests 
throughout  the  venture. 

When  he  had  explained  that  Harry  and  "Cap"  were 
to  be  of  the  party,  I  at  once  agreed  to  go,  for  right 
well  I  knew  the  ways  of  those  choice  spirits  and  the 

155 


156  Sporting  Sketches 

possibilities  of  a  jolly  day  on  the  heaving  breast  of 
Old  Atlantic.  He  further  explained  that  he  would 
start  early  in  the  afternoon  to  make  sure  that  every- 
thing was  all  right,  while  we  could  take  an  evening 
train  at  our  leisure.  He  would  meet  us  at  Ham- 
mil's  Station,  on  the  big  trestle,  and  there  was  no 
need  to  bother  about  tackle,  as  everything  would  be 
ready. 

It  had  been  an  extraordinary  season,  and  the 
second  day  of  October  appeared  like  an  estray  from 
August.  When  we  reached  our  destination,  we 
presently  found  a  very  fair  hotel  of  its  kind  and  an 
excellent  dinner  of  any  kind.  After  that  came  a 
chat  over  the  cigars,  which  Harry  endeavored  to 
cut  short. 

"Wasting  valuable  time  —  be  invaluable  first 
thing  you  know !  " 

"  Read  him  the  riot  act,"  chuckled  Hill,  and  I  did, 
part  of  the  argument  being  the  magnificent  night, 
good  cigars,  and  pleasant  company.  Moreover, 
each  man's  money  was  still  in  his  pocket,  while 
sleep  was  a  grand  thing  for  men  who  had  to  arise 
before  the  sun. 

"  My  money  ain't  still  in  my  pocket,"  growled  the 
incorrigible,  nor  was  it,  for  we  could  distinctly  hear 
the  jingle  as  he  turned  it  over.  The  sound  sug- 
gested quarters,  dimes,  and  nickels  galore  —  the 
rascal  had  prepared  for  any  emergency! 

Now,  I'm  no  immortal  George,  so  the  reader  may 
grub  up  the  root  of  the  cherry  tree,  or  not,  as  he 
prefers.  Within  an  hour  each  man  was  in  his  room. 
Mine  had  two  big  windows,  thrdligh  which  the  lazy 
breath  of  the  ocean  passed  at  will.  As  I  lay  enjoy- 


A  Bit  of  Sea  Fishing  157 

ing  air  which  well  might  have  come  straight  down 
from  the  blue  purity  above,  I  could  not  help  con- 
trasting it  with  the  smoke-laden  stuff  we  might 
have  been  inhaling  had  we  played  poker. 

"  Bad  for  health  to  play  cards,"  I  drowsily  mut- 
tered, for  the  air  was  doing  its  work.  At  that 
moment  a  footfall  sounded  in  the  hall,  and  soon 
a  fist  smote  my  door  with  no  uncertain  touch.  I 
knew  it  was  Harry  still  trying  to  get  up  a  game,  so 
I  yelled  at  him  —  "  Get  away  out  of  that —  ye  evil 
'  gam  '  —  I  won't  play !  " 

"  Yez  wun't  what  ?  "  asked  a  strange  voice.  "  Git 
yez  up,  sorr,  un  yez'll  not  fish  nayther.  The  hull  av 
thim's  up ! " 

"  Why !    What  time  is  it  ?  "  I  asked  in  amazement. 

"  Faith,  an'  it's  just  wint  foor !  Lord  love  yez,  d'ye 
tink  I'm  foolin'  wid  yez?  Shure  Mr.  Hill  towld  me 
to  haul  yez  out  uv  dat ! " 

I  realized  the  situation  and  bestirred  myself. 

It  truly  was  a  marvellous  morning.  Not  a  breath 
of  air  was  stirring  as  we  went  down  the  long  wharf 
with  its  double  row  of  club-houses.  The  whole 
world  of  waters  was  sleeping  like  a  healthy  child, 
and  in  the  solemn  dome  of  blue  which  roofed  our 
field  of  action  was  not  one  vestige  of  cloud.  The 
tide  was  busy,  but  even  the  great  pulse  of  Atlantic 
seemed  to  beat  weakly.  The  whole  scene  was 
drowsy. 

It  was  beautiful,  too.  Across  the  channel  spread 
broad  marshes,  swart  from  sun-baking,  wholesome 
with  salt.  Above  them  hung  a  few  bannerets  of 
pearly  mist  casting  peculiar,  sharply  defined  shadows. 
Upon  one  side  the  barnacled,  weed-tufted  piles  rose 


158  Sporting  Sketches 

like  long  columns  of  jet  studded  with  pearls  and 
precious  things,  while  their  broken  reflections  in  the 
creeping  tide  displayed  a  wealth  of  velvet  shadow 
and  silver  sheen  which  only  the  brush  of  a  master 
of  black-and-white  could  portray.  The  wharf  and 
club-houses  of  many  colors  seemed  like  the  narrow 
street  of  some  quaint  old  city,  and  when  a  pictu- 
resque sailorman  approached,  I  half  expected  to  hear 
him  speak  in  some  unknown  language.  But  he  did 
not.  Instead,  he  fluently  cursed  the  prospect  of  no 
sport  and  the  weather  which  prevented  the  hiring 
of  his  sailboat  to  some  fishing  party. 

Hill  cared  not  for  the  weather.  His  roomy  craft 
was  quite  a  curio  in  her  own  way.  Her  owner,  with 
an  eye  to  calm,  or  an  unfavorable  breeze,  had 
equipped  her  with  a  gas  engine  which,  when  white 
wings  had  to  be  furled,  could  drive  her  at  fair  speed. 

"  Can't  fool  me,"  he  remarked,  as  he  pointed  out 
the  engine,  wheel,  and  tanks  —  "I  fish  for  fun,  and 
I  want  to  be  able  to  go  and  come  when  I  please." 
He  certainly  had  solved  the  problem. 

Soon  lines  were  cast  off,  the  engine  chug-chugged 
merrily,  and  the  craft  slid  seaward  in  spite  of  the 
tide.  We  lounged  at  ease  in  sweaters  and  knickers, 
and  prepared  to  enjoy  our  unusual  experience.  The 
engine,  unfortunately,  could  not  drive  so  large  a 
hull  fast  enough  for  trolling  for  "blues,"  which 
demands  lively  progress.  But  there  were  other 
fish  in  the  sea,  and  while  a  bout  with  the  blues 
would  have  been  preferable,  the  lack  of  it  was  not 
to  mar  our  pleasure. 

Once  outside,  the  sea  presented  an  extraordinary 
appearance,  the  like  of  which  I  never  had  beheld. 


A  Bit  of  Sea  Fishing  159 

The  water  looked  like  oil.  Far  as  eye  could  rove 
there  was  not  a  semblance  of  a  wave.  Had  it  not 
been  for  the  long,  slow  swing  like  the  wraith  of 
wave  action  common  to  that  coast,  we  might  as  well 
have  been  upon  the  oft-quoted  mill-pond. 

For  some  time  we  steadily  forged  ahead  under 
the  pilotage  of  one  hairy  sea-dog  who  constituted 
the  crew.  Our  chosen  spot  was  over  an  ancient 
wreck,  all  that  is  left  of  an  Italian  brig  which  found 
her  grave  one  awful  night  when  walls  of  crashing 
white  sent  her  straining  hull  to  swift  destruction. 
The  old  salts  tell  of  grewsome  things  of  that  night 
—  of  piercing  calls  in  foreign  tongue,  of  bubbling 
prayers,  and  of  battered  forms  wallowing  in  fierce 
undertow  and  flung  high  upon  heartless  sands  as 
the  breakers  wearied  of  their  sport.  No  doubt 
those  tales  are  true;  certain  it  is  that  the  wreck 
now  affords  fine  fishing. 

Our  craft  anchored  in  proper  position,  and  we 
prepared  for  business.  Hill  shipped  up  a  fine  bam- 
boo rod,  while  the  rest  of  us  were  given  handlines 
which  carried  heavy  sinkers,  and  two  hooks  each. 
The  bait  consisted  of  clams. 

Of  course  the  capture  of  the  first  fish  was  an 
interesting  matter.  I  felt  a  gentle  nibble,  made  a 
snatch,  and  felt  I  had  something.  Presently  to  the 
surface  came  a  couple  of  dark,  prettily  mottled  fish. 
As  I  hauled  them  aboard,  Peaceman  also  landed  one 
of  the  same  sort,  and  so  the  honor  of  first  catch  was 
shared. 

Harry  looked  at  my  captives  and  remarked: 
"  And  you  wouldn't  play  draw  !  You  bet  if  I  could 
catch  pairs  like  that  I  wouldn't  miss  a  game." 


160  Sporting  Sketches 

The  fish  were  blackfish.  They  weighed  about 
half  a  pound  each,  and  I  subsequently  found  that 
they  were  excellent  for  the  table.  They  had  small, 
sheeplike  mouths  with  prominent  teeth,  which  they 
presumably  use  for  crushing  small  shellfish.  An 
abundance  of  such  food  no  doubt  attracted  the  black- 
fish  to  the  wreck.  There  must  have  been  hundreds 
of  them  below  us,  for  we  had  lively  sport  for  a  couple 
of  hours. 

An  occasional  tidy  sea-bass  afforded  variety  to  the 
proceedings,  and  other  things,  neither  so  tidy  nor  so 
acceptable,  took  the  hooks.  Small  crabs  hung  to 
the  baits  until  they  reached  the  surface,  then  usually 
let  go  their  holds  and  sidled  to  the  glooms.  Now 
and  then  a  piece  of  sharp  work  secured  one  of 
them. 

The  first  big  spider-crab,  ahideous-looking  varmint, 
was  captured  by  Harry.  At  first  it  looked  like  a 
bundle  of  roots  or  a  mess  of  the  drowned  Italians' 
spaghetti.  Harry  landed  it  between  his  feet,  took 
one  glance,  then  climbed  the  deck-house.  When  the 
spider  got  upon  its  feet  and  began  to  move  about, 
Harry  muttered,  "  Jerusalem  !  what  hands  he  could 
hold  and  how  he  could  manipulate  pasteboards." 
Harry,  however,  would  fish  no  more,  vowing  "  that 
he  didn't  want  to  catch  any  more  things  like  that  in 
his  draw." 

Skates,  too,  came  up  at  intervals.  The  first  one 
captured  was  taken  charge  of  by  the  crew,  who 
promptly  demanded  a  pocket-flask.  He  freed  the 
skate  from  the  hook,  turned  it  upon  its  back,  then 
calmly  poured  a  few  drops  of  whiskey  into  the  con- 
vulsively working  mouth.  In  a  few  moments  he 


A  Bit  of  Sea  Fishing  161 

tossed  the  skate  overboard,  whereupon  the  gyrations 
it  described  were  simply  amazing.  "  He's  drunk  as 
a  fool,"  laughed  the  sailor,  as  he  watched  his  unfor- 
tunate victim.  The  skate  certainly  acted  as  though 
it  had  taken  a  nip  or  two  too  much,  but  if  its  actions 
are  what  are  referred  to  by  the  slang  term  "  skate," 
as  applied  to  the  inebriated  human,  I  desire  no  such 
experience  in  mine.  It  was  good  whiskey,  too ! 

As  time  slipped  away  the  fish  ceased  biting,  but 
we  were  told  the  fun  would  be  srood  asrain  later  on. 

o  o 

Our  kind  host  had  provided  a  lunch,  which  came  in 
most  acceptably.  After  a  long  rest  and  a  chat,  "  Cap  " 
decided  that  the  day  was  just  right  for  swimming. 
He  removed  his  sweater,  and,  clad  only  in  his 
knickers,  went  to  the  side,  presumably  to  test  the 
water  with  his  foot  before  plunging  in.  The  crew 
eyed  him  curiously,  then  asked  :  — 

"Are  you  thinking  of  flopping  over?  " 
Cap  replied,   "  Sure  I  am  —  it  looks  fine." 
"  Maybe  'tain't  quite  so  good  as  it  looks,"  replied 
the  man.     "  No  fish  has  bit  for  an  hour,  and  there's 
liable  to  be  a  shark  'bout  as  big  as  you  are  skirmish- 
ing around  under  there." 

The  expression  which  flashed  over  Cap's  face  was 
very,  very  funny,  and  the  way  he  slid  away  was  still 
funnier.  The  man  told  me  that  he  intended  no  joke, 
and  at  the  same  time  he  jerked  his  thumb  signifi- 
cantly in  the  direction  of  a  couple  of  lily-irons  which 
lay  upon  the  deck-house.  He  further  declared  that 
he  fancied  he  had  seen  a  large,  vague  form  drifting 
about  below. 

"  Look  there  !  "  he  exclaimed. 

It  may  have  been  fancy,  but  it  did  seem  to  me 


1 62  Sporting  Sketches 

that  a  big,  shadowy  thing  for  an  instant  was  visible. 
At  all  events,  the  man  meant  what  he  said.  It  was 
a  quiet  joke  on  me,  too,  for  I  had  been  feeling  fit  for 
a  swim,  which,  needless  to  say,  I  did  not  attempt. 

All  through  the  dreamy  afternoon  the  heat  held 
its  own,  and  no  breath  of  wind  came.  We  fished 
until  we  wearied  of  apparently  inexhaustible  sport. 
We  got  as  tanned  as  redskins,  and  at  last  some  one 
looked  westward  and  saw  a  tremendous  crimson 
sphere  sinking  toward  the  water-line. 

Simple  as  this  form  of  sport  may  appear  to  those 
who  know  the  best  there  is  of  river,  lake,  and  brook 
fishing,  the  day  had  supplied  a  most  enjoyable 
experience.  The  substitution  of  stiff  rods  might 
introduce  more  pleasing  features,  yet  a  congenial 
party,  with  a  host  like  Hill,  may  find  there  is  fun, 
even  in  the  use  of  handlines.  Not  one  moment  of 
the  time  dragged,  and,  after  all,  it  does  men  good 
now  and  then  to  forget  their  cares  and  just  be  boys 
together. 


XHIU 

EAIIIL  AHB 
HBEEIE)  IBfflSPo 

IN  the  sportsman's  golden  days,  when  every  tide- 
water, marsh,  and  wet-land  of  our  Atlantic  coast 
attracted  its  host  of  the  larger  waterfowl,  little  if  any 
attention  was  paid  to  the  birds  now  under  discus- 
sion. It  is  true  that  the  rail  was  recognized  as  a 
delicacy,  but  more  valuable  game  was  so  easily 
procured,  and  the  sport  it  afforded  was  so  much  more 
attractive,  that  comparatively  few  of  the  old  school 
of  sportsmen  were  disposed  to  take  the  rail  at  all 
seriously.  But  it  is  different  to-day.  Three-fourths 
of  the  ducks  and  other  highly  prized  species  having 
been  either  destroyed,  or  driven  to  more  remote 
resorts,  the  humbler  quarry  has  its  innings  —  pos- 
sibly to  its  sincere  regret.  While  neither  rail  nor 
reed  bird  can  rival  the  waterfowl,  grouse,  cock, 
bobwhite,  or  snipe  as  objects  of  the  sportsman's 
pursuit,  yet  they  play  no  unimportant  parts  among 
our  latter-day  recreations.  Ears  accustomed  to  the 
clatter  of  the  city's  busiest  quarter  are  open  to  the 
word  from  the  marshes  which  tells  of  the  movements 
of  the  small  birds  and  of  the  tides  which  bring  the 
cream  of  the  shooting. 

The  sport,  humble  though  it  be,  has  certain  attri- 
butes which  entitle  it  to  respect.  It  comes  at  a  very 
pleasant  season,  when  the  demands  of  business  are 

163 


1 64  Sporting  Sketches 

least  exacting  and  when  overtaxed  toilers  of  the 
cities  are  best  out  of  doors.  There  is  no  strenuous 
labor  attached  to  it,  so  that  too  well-fed  mortals,  who 
have  lost  something  of  the  energy  and  enthusiasm 
of  youth,  may  participate  without  fear  of  conse- 
quences; and  it  is  sufficiently  reliable  to  insure  its 
followers  at  least  a  fair  measure  of  success.  These 
are  important  features,  which  unfortunately  cannot 
always  be  depended  upon  when  one  seeks  other 
game. 

The  rail  and  the  reed  bird,  though  occupying  the 
same  haunts  during  a  portion  of  the  year,  cannot 
claim  even  a  remote  kinship.  The  reed  bird,  Doli- 
chonyx  oryzivorus,  is  an  icteroid  singing  bird,  our 
well-known  bobolink,  also  known  as  rice  bird,  skunk 
blackbird,  and  butter  bird,  in  different  parts  of  the 
country.  During  the  spring  the  male  of  this  species 
is  a  most  conspicuous  and  charming  figure  in  every 
pastoral  landscape.  His  body-color  of  velvet  black, 
boldly  relieved  by  rich  cream  and  white,  would  not 
fail  to  attract  attention,  even  if  his  marvellous  throat 
did  not  contain  a  witchery  of  song-producing  power 
equalled  by  few  American  birds  and  surpassed  by 
none.  From  the  plumage  is  derived  the  name 
"skunk  blackbird,"  the  general  black-and-white 
effect  suggesting  the  coat  of  the  handsome  but 
unreliable  quadruped. 

The  rollicking  song  of  the  bobolink  is  the  cheeri- 
est of  bird  music.  The  ripple  of  a  merry  maiden's 
laugh,  the  foamy  mirth  of  a  woodland  cascade, 
blended  with  the  tinkle  of  wee  golden  bells,  might 
imitate  it;  the  pen  cannot.  When~heard  at  its  best, 
the  bird  is  drifting  on  lazy,  ebon  wings  above  soft 


Rail  and  Reed  Bird  165 

waves  of  sunlit  grasses.  Then,  while  moving  his 
pinions  only  fast  enough  to  keep  him  in  air,  he 
gurgles  out  his  liquid  notes  in  an  apparent  ecstasy 
of  happiness  which  it  does  one  good  to  observe. 

When  in  the  humor,  the  bobolink  is  a  swift  flier, 
and  this  is  best  exemplified  when  two  or  more 
amorous  males  dash  away  in  pursuit  of  the  modest- 
looking,  brownish  yellow  female.  She  may  or  may 
not  put  forth  her  best  speed,  but  certain  it  is  that 
she  leads  her  gay-clad  gallants  through  the  maddest 
of  mazy  frolics.  A  foot  above  the  grass  she  darts 
like  a  feathered  bullet,  now  shooting  upward  for  a 
few  yards,  now  stooping  low  till  her  soft  breast 
brushes  the  tender  growth ;  again,  twisting  and 
dodging  with  amazing  facility,  to  perhaps  end  a 
two-hundred-yard  chase  by  a  crafty  swerve  into  the 
grass.  Side  by  side,  singing  with  all  their  might 
till  their  blended  voices  ring  like  a  peal  of  merriest 
laughter,  fly  the  pursuing  males.  Rising  as  she 
rises,  stooping  when  she  stoops,  following  every 
lightning  twist  and  turn  as  though  it  had  all  been 
carefully  rehearsed,  they  chase  her  like  a  small 
tornado  of  song  till  she  gains  her  shelter.  Then 
they  curve  away  on  trembling  wings,  jingling  de- 
fiance at  each  other,  —  a  defiance  which  surely  con- 
tains more  of  mirth  than  anger,  for  its  fiercest  tone 
is  soft  and  soothing  as  the  gurgle  of  long-stored 
wine. 

Few  people  would  recognize  this  handsome  min- 
strel of  the  meadow  in  the  brownish  yellow  reed  bird 
of  midsummer  and  early  autumn,  whose  sole  note 
is  a  dull,  monotonous  "  Pink-pink ! "  as  the  flocks 
veer  and  tack  from  point  to  point  of  the  rice  marshes. 


166  Sporting  Sketches 

The  truth  is  the  male  bobolink,  like  the  mallard 
drake  and  several  other  species,  doffs  his  gay  lover's 
garb  soon  after  the  completion  of  the  courtship. 
A  respectable  head  of  a  family  has  no  business  to  be 
knocking  about  in  swell  attire,  and  serenading  and 
chasing  females,  no  matter  how  modestly  dressed 
they  may  be.  So  the  bobolink  bottles  up  his  song, 
puts  on  his  working  clothes,  and  hustles  in  the  com- 
missariat department  to  satisfy  the  half-dozen  gap- 
ing mouths  in  the  grass-screened  nest.  When  the 
young  have  grown  strong  upon  the  wing,  the  birds 
of  several  meadows  assemble  in  flocks  and  attack 
the  ripening  oats.  Thence  they  betake  themselves 
to  the  marshes,  to  pose  as  reed  birds  after  they 
have  fattened  upon  the  nutritious  seeds  of  the  wild 
rice. 

The  sport  of  shooting  reed  birds,  or  "  reedies,"  as 
they  frequently  are  termed,  is  too  tame  for  the  amuse- 
ment of  any  one  but  a  novice.  As  an  adjunct  to  rail 
shooting  it  may  serve  to  fill  up  time,  but  as  the 
birds  flock  closely  when  moving  and  require  no 
particular  craft  on  the  part  of  the  shooter,  neither 
skill  nor  excitement  is  ever  prominent.  Not  sel- 
dom the  flocks,  owing  to  the  nature  of  the  ground, 
will  follow  one  general  line  of  flight ;  then  all  the 
shooter  has  to  do  is  to  place  his  boat,  or  take  his 
stand  behind  some  convenient  growth  and  blaze 
away  at  the  passing  birds.  A  double  shot  may 
score  as  many  as  twenty  "  reedies."  When  well 
fattened  upon  rice  the  birds  are  delicious  morsels, 
but  no  better  than  sparrows  and  several  other  small 
birds  would  be  after  a  course  of  tHe  same  diet. 

So  far  as  this  shooting  is  concerned,  I  do  not  for 


Rail  and  Reed  Bird  167 

one  moment  believe  that  the  amount  of  profit  or 
pleasure  which  a  limited  number  of  persons  derives 
from  the  annual  slaughter  of  thousands  of  birds  is 
anything  like  a  fair  compensation  for  the  resultant 
loss  of  the  bobolink's  spring  music.  Furthermore, 
the  good  accomplished  by  these  birds  in  destroying 
insects  during  the  nesting  period  will  more  than  bal- 
ance the  debit  item  of  oats  as  charged  in  the  agricultu- 
rist's ledger.  The  inexorable  demands  of  fashion  have 
already  played  havoc  among  our  most  beautiful  and 
useful  song-birds,  and  we  might  well  suffer  the  bobo- 
link to  safely  pass  through  the  reed-bird  stage  of  his 
existence.  If  this  were  done,  our  fields  might  again 
ring  with  the  melody  of  the  olden  days,  and  the 
Eastern  states  be  much  more  pleasant  fields  for 
man's  toil.  So  desirable  a  condition  is  not  to  be 
expected  so  long  as  guns  roar  the  doom  of  the 
"  reedies  "  nor  while  the  riven  lutes  find  ready  sale. 
The  man  who  can  listen  to  the  bobolink  and  still 
enjoy  a  course  of  "  reedies,"  is  about  on  a  par  with 
the  consumer  of  English  skylarks.  And  as  for  the 
pot-hunter  who  butchers  the  beauties  for  the  pennies 
their  wretched  little  bodies  bring!  —  would  he  not 
glory  over  a  pot-shot  at  an  angel,  the  sale  of  the 
game,  and  the  shrewd  dicker  with  "  Mine  Uncle " 
for  the  golden  harp  ? 

The  rail,  or  sora,  Porzana  Carolina,  is  an  entirely 
different  type.  It  knows  not  music,  its  quaint, 
metallic  chatter  somewhat  resembling  the  low, 
hurried  cry  of  a  startled  guinea-fowl.  It  is  a 
wader,  a  frequenter  of  the  wet  marsh  and  meadow 
and  the  border  of  the  stream.  Here  it  finds  shelter, 
food,  and  a  nesting-place.  The  rail's  northward  and 


1 68  Sporting  Sketches 

southward  migrations  depend  somewhat  upon  the 
weather,  as  it  is  rather  delicate.  It  reaches  our 
marshes  in  May,  and  the  first  sharp  frost  starts  it 
southward.  An  intelligent  examination  of  the  rail 
will  detect  one  of  Nature's  beautiful  adaptations  to 
certain  conditions.  The  general  yellowish  brown, 
striped  color-effect  curiously  blends  with  the  stems 
of  reeds,  rice,  and  other  water-loving  growths.  The 
deep,  narrow  body  appears  to  have  been  specially 
designed  to  secure  an  easy  passage  through  thick- 
standing  cover,  while  the  strong  legs  and  long,  wide- 
spreading  toes  combine  swiftness  with  the  ability  to 
lightly  trip  over  floating  foliage  which  would  not 
support  a  bird  having  feet  of  the  average  size.  The 
flight  of  the  rail  apparently  is  such  a  feeble,  flutter- 
ing, shortly  sustained  effort,  that  one  is  apt  to  puzzle 
over  the  question  of  how  the  bird  possibly  can  trav- 
erse the  great  distances  over  which  its  migrations 
extend.  It  may  be  that  the  toilsome  journey  is 
judiciously  divided  into  easy  stages,  but  it  is  more 
probable  that  the  birds  select  favorable  weather,  rise 
high,  and  are  borne  in  their  chosen  direction  by 
moderate  winds.  Well-authenticated  instances  of 
rails  alighting  upon  ships  far  out  at  sea  tend  to 
substantiate  this  theory. 

The  color,  form,  and  foot  render  the  rail  an 
extremely  difficult  bird  to  obtain  a  fair  view  of, 
or  to  cause  to  take  wing  in  many  of  its  haunts. 
Through  thick  growth  it  can  glide  like  a  field-mouse, 
while  over  the  surface  of  a  pond  it  can  rapidly  trot, 
though  apparently  treading  upon  nothing  more 
stable  than  the  surface  of  the  water.  It  can  swim 
and  dive  fairly  well,  and  if  driven  to  extremity,  it 


Rail  and  Reed  Bird  169 

may  work  its  way  under  floating  or  stranded  stuff 
and  lie  hidden  with  only  its  slender  bill  above  water. 
The  adult  rail  measures  about  eight  and  one-half 
inches  in  length,  and  from  tip  to  tip  of  extended 
wings  about  fourteen  inches.  The  upper  parts  are 
golden  brown,  with  blackish  markings  in  the  centres 
of  most  of  the  feathers.  A  black  stripe  extends  to 
the  back  of  the  head,  the  same  color  also  encircling 
the  base  of  the  bill  and  broadening  upon  the  throat. 
The  sides  of  the  head  and  neck  and  the  breast  are  a 
pretty  bluish  slate,  which  pales  to  an  almost  pure 
white  upon  the  lower  under  parts.  The  bill  is 
greenish,  shading  into  yellow  on  the  lower  maudible; 
lower  tail  coverts  brownish  white;  flanks  and  in- 
side of  wings  barred  with  white  and  sepia ;  legs  yel- 
lowish green.  Young  birds  lack  the  conspicuous 
black  markings,  their  general  coloration  being 
browner,  with  a  lighter  mark  on  the  throat. 

The  rail  is  locally  known  by  various  names, 
among  which  are  sora,  water-hen,  chicken-bill,  and 
that  Jersey  product,  "  rail  bird.  "  In  addition  to  its 
running  powers  and  apparent  aversion  to  taking 
wing,  it  has  one  marked  peculiarity  which  some  of 
our  best  naturalists  have  observed  and  commented 
upon,  yet  have  failed  to  satisfactorily  explain.  I  re- 
fer to  a  sort  of  fit  into  which  a  bird  appears  to  fall 
now  and  then.  This  fit,  if  it  may  be  so  termed,  may 
be  a  paroxysm  of  terror ;  but  be  that  as  it  may,  it 
certainly  is  peculiar.  It  does  not  appear  to  have  any 
connection  with  the  report  of  the  gun,  but  rather  to 
result  from  some  situation  in  which  an  uninjured 
rail  imagines  itself  to  be  hopelessly  cornered  in  the 
grass,  or  other  cover.  A  bird  attacked  by  the  fit 


1 70  Sporting  Sketches 

stiffens,  topples  over,  and  apparently  expires.  It 
may  be  taken  up  and  examined  for  a  considerable 
time  without  its  betraying  any  signs  of  life.  Place 
it  among  its  dead  fellows  in  the  shooting-boat,  and 
after  a  longer  or  shorter  interval  it  may  astonish  its 
captor  by  either  starting  to  run  about,  or  by  taking 
wing  and  fluttering  away  in  the  characteristic  flight. 
Many  sportsmen  have  noted  this  curious  action  and 
have  naturally  supposed  that  the  stricken  bird  had 
been  hit  by  a  pellet  of  shot,  and  later  had  revived 
enough  to  take  care  of  itself.  This,  however,  is 
incorrect,  as  the  bird  really  undergoes  some  peculiar 
attack,  from  which  it  will  entirely  recover  if  granted 
the  opportunity.  I  have  seen  a  rail  crouched  in 
meadow  grass  suddenly  stiffen,  when  the  only 
apparent  cause  was  the  sound  of  my  boot  rustling 
the  herbage.  Others  have  spoken  of  having  at- 
tempted to  pick  up  a  skulking  bird,  which  to  their 
astonishment  stretched  out  and  seemingly  expired 
as  the  hand  was  extended  toward  it. 

I  do  not  pretend  to  understand  the  matter,  but 
it  possibly  may  be  explained  in  this  way.  In  many 
of  the  rails  haunts  are  snakes  quite  large  enough  to 
swallow  a  full-grown  bird.  The  rail's  mouse-like 
habit  of  running  through  the  grass  may  subject  it  to 
attack  by  these  snakes.  A  rustling  in  the  grass 
may  suggest  the  presence  of  a  big  snake,  as  anything 
pointed  at  the  rail  may  resemble,  to  timid  eyes,  the 
reptile  about  to  strike.  Those  who  dispute  the 
snake's  power  to  paralyze  or  "  charm "  its  victim 
may  scoff  at  this  theory,  but  then  those  who  dis- 
pute the  snake's  power  are  wrong  in  their  own  con- 
tention. The  snake  has  the  power  and  has  exercised 


Rail  and  Reed  Bird  171 

it  before  many  pairs  of  excellent  eyes,  my  own 
among  them. 

Owing  to  the  rail's  habit  of  skulking  in  dense 
cover,  it  can  be  depended  upon  for  sport  only  in 
tide-waters.  At  high  tide  the  marsh  growths  are 
so  much  submerged  that  a  suitable  boat  may 
readily  be  pushed  through  their  tops,  while  their 
protection  as  cover  is  for  the  time  lost  to  the  birds. 
At  low  tide  a  man  might  flounder  about  for  hours 
without  getting  a  shot,  although  rails  were  all  around 
him.  Because  the  birds  are  slow  fliers,  which  usu- 
ally rise  at  close  range  and  cannot  carry  off  shot, 
the  lightest  of  guns  and  charges  are  best.  The 
other  requisites  for  the  sport  include  the  proper 
boat,  a  man  who  knows  the  marsh  to  act  as 
"  pusher,"  and  a  high  tide.  The  pusher's  busi- 
ness is  to  push  or  pole  the  boat  through  the  best 
cover,  to  direct  attention  to  rising  birds,  to  mark 
down  and  secure  what  may  happen  to  fall,  to  flatter 
and  cajole  a  duffer,  to  gloat  over  a  reliable  per- 
former, to  swear  audibly  or  under  his  breath  as 
circumstances  may  appear  to  warrant,  to  assist  at 
any  spiritual  seance  at  which  spirits  promise  to 
freely  respond,  to  get  more  birds  than  any  other 
boat  out  for  the  tide,  and  to  endeavor  to  get  a  line 
on  the  plumpness  of  his  patron's  pocket-book  and  to 
charge  accordingly.  A  good  man  does  all  these 
things,  not  seldom  including  the  patron. 

The  amount  of  shooting  to  be  obtained  largely 
depends  upon  the  height  of  the  tide  and  the  skill  of 
the  pusher.  But  whether  the  gun  be  kept  busy,  or 
rests  upon  one's  arm,  the  experience  is  bound  to 
be  a  pleasant  one.  Properly  propelled,  the  light- 


1 72  Sporting  Sketches 

draught  boat  steadily  glides  through  or  over  the 
yielding  cover ;  a  rail  flutters  up  within  a  few  yards 
and  goes  wobbling  away,  its  feet  hanging  as  though 
reluctant  to  leave  the  saving  growths.  The  flush  is 
indicated  by  the  pusher's  automatic  cry  of  "  Mark !  " 
and  the  squib  of  the  light  charge  punctuates  a  kill  or 
a  miss,  usually  the  former  if  the  sportsman  is  pos- 
sessed of  an  ordinary  amount  of  skill.  The  shooting 
may  be  continued  till  from  twenty  to  one  hundred 
shells  have  been  exploded  and  the  outgoing  waters 
have  uncovered  so  much  lush  growth  that  the  rails 
can  no  longer  be  induced  to  rise.  It  is  an  easy, 
restful  form  of  sport,  with  just  enough  of  sunshine, 
of  the  salt  strength  of  the  marshes,  and  of  mild  excite- 
ment to  do  a  business-worn  man  a  deal  of  good. 


W(0)(0)EQXC(Q>(£IK 


IN  an  extensive  sporting  experience  one  is  certain 
to  run  across  many  very  queer  mortals,  and  perhaps 
eventually  make  friendships  with  one  or  more  of 
those  human  oddities  who  come  under  the  head  of 
"  characters."  I  have  met  many  of  them,  and  do 
not  regret  it,  for,  while  they  were  very  peculiar  men, 
more  than  one  proved  well  worth  cultivating.  The 
love  of  sport  may  lurk  beneath  a  most  unpromising 
garb,  and  we  find  some  men,  a  la  fabled  toad,  possess  a 
brilliant  redeeming  feature  beneath  a  most  discourag- 
ing exterior,  the  true  value  of  which  must  be  learned 
through  intimacy. 

I  have  shot  in  many  places  and  in  varied  company, 
and  perhaps  the  strangest  comrade  I  ever  shared 
luck  with  was  a  big,  bandy-legged  negro,  who  bore 
the  name  of  Duckett,  or,  as  he  was  generally  styled, 
"  Ole  Paw  Duckett."  Beyond  saying  that  he  was 
well  versed  in  woodcraft,  black  as  a  barrel  of  tar, 
and  the  soul  of  good  nature,  I  need  not  describe 


174  Sporting  Sketches 

him  further,  but  will  give  a  day's  sport  with  the 
cock  in  his  company,  and  let  the  reader  guess  what 
manner  of  man  Duckett  was. 

One  fine  Saturday  in  August  the  sable  lady  who 
presided  over  the  culinary  department  of  my  house 
informed  me  that  a  "  genlum  "  wished  to  see  me  at 
the  door,  and  on  going  out  I  found  my  black  friend 
and  another  negro  awaiting  me. 

"  Mawnin',  Marse  Ned ;  I  'lowed  yo'd  be  hum  dis 
mawnin';  kin  I  see  yo'  er  minnit  privut  ?  " 

We  moved  aside  a  few  yards,  and  Duckett's  errand 
was  soon  explained. 

"  Say,  Marse  Ned,  I  done  diskivered  a  lot  ob 
cocks  in  de  creek,  an'  we'd  best  gather  'em  in 
a-Monday.  Dat  Jones  yondah  spishuns  sumpfin, 
but  I'se  done  gwinter  fool  um.  Kin  yo'  cum  up  in 
de  canoe  Sunday  night  an'  bring  de  ole  dawg? 
Der's  a  hull  lot  of  'em  an'  we  best  do  de  pawlizin'  to 
'em  fust  t'ing  Monday  mawnin'." 

"  But  it's  infernally  hot." 

"  Nebber  yo'  mind  'bout  dat.  It's  jest  gwinter  up 
an'  rain  ter-morrow,  an'  it  ull  be  cool  nuff  fo'  a  few 
hours  a-Monday  and  mebbe  fo'  all  day.  Yo'  cum 
'long  anyhow  or  I  nebber  tell  yo'  'bout  no  mo'.  We 
kin  hab  a  nap  on  de  hay  in  the  barn  same  as  we  did 
dat  time  las'  year.  Now,  yo'  am  comin'  shuah 
nuff?" 

"  All  right,  you  black  seducer,  I'll  be  there  some 
time  Sunday  night." 

Right  well  did  Duckett  know  that  the  promise 
would  be  kept;  and  he  departed  with  his  friend 
Jones,  the  old  rascal  stuffing  the  latter  with  craftily 
worded  explanations  of  his  business  with  "  Marse 


A  Day  with  tbe  Woodcock  175 

Ned,"  for  Jones  was  a  market  hunter  in  a  small  way 
and  of  course  had  to  be  treated  cautiously. 

Eight  o'clock  on  Sunday  night,  after  sundry 
manoeuvres  to  escape  scrutiny,  saw  man  and  pointer 
settling  themselves  in  a  Peterboro  canoe  for  their 
five-mile  paddle  upon  the  currentless,  waveless  river. 
The  dog  deposited  himself  in  the  bow,  with  his  keen 
nose  resting  on  the  'wale  and  ever  searching  the 
air  for  trace  of  game  as  they  moved  noiselessly 
along.  In  the  centre  of  the  craft  was  a  beautiful 
hammerless,  the  shells  and  a  canvas  shooting  coat, 
while  near  the  stern  knelt  the  proprietor  of  the 
outfit,  slowly  plying  his  paddle. 

It  was  a  close,  sultry  night,  with  as  yet  no  sign  of 
rain,  in  spite  of  Duckett's  prophecy  of  the  previous 
day.  But  it  felt  like  a  shower,  and  as  the  paddler 
paused  to  relight  his  pipe,  when  half  the  journey 
was  done,  he  took  a  glance  at  his  watch  and  thought, 
"  Nine  o'clock  —  I'll  be  an  hour  late ;  but  the  old  boy 
was  correct  about  the  rain,  for  unless  my  judgment 
is  astray,  it  will  arrive  in  the  shape  of  a  thunder 
storm  ere  this  jaunt  is  done." 

But  the  storm  was  distant  yet,  and  he  was  in  no  hurry 
and  moved  but  lazily  until  the  moon  climbed  above 
the  dark  phalanx  of  silent  trees  and  flooded  the 
stream  with  silvery  light.  It  was  a  familiar  scene. 
Right  well  did  he  know  every  foot  of  that  motionless 
water  gleaming  between  vague,  shadowy  banks,  and 
where  the  velvety  shadows  ended  and  the  dim, 
uncertain  shores  began.  Had  it  been  darkest  night 
he  could  have  sent  the  canoe  speeding  along  and 
never  touched  one  of  the  many  snags  and  sunken 
trees  that  marked  the  way.  Ere  long  many  fish 


176  Sporting  Sketches 

rose,  and  now  and  then  a  heavy  one  leaped  clear  of 
the  water  and  fell  with  a  sounding  splash. 

From  somewhere  among  the  black  walls  of  giant 
sycamores  and  walnuts  a  big-horned  owl  hailed  the 
voyageurs  in  gruff,  commanding  tones  —  the  all- 
night  bass  which  more  than  owls  acquire  —  "  Whoo, 
who  —  you  two  ?  "  with  startling  distinctness.  The 
dog  uttered  a  low  growl  and  Marse  Ned  chuckled 
to  himself,  "  You  two "  is  good.  Hailed  by  one 
chicken  thief,  while  trying  to  keep  an  engagement 
with  another.  Then  he  sent  back  a  masterly  imita- 
tion. 

"  Whoo,  hoo-hoo-hoo,  whoo !  "  an  imitation  that 
fooled  the  midnight  despoiler  of  hen  roosts  so  com- 
pletely that  he  challenged  again  and  again.  For  a 
few  moments  the  paddle  poised  in  air  while  Marse 
Ned  hesitated  whether  or  not  to  run  ashore  and 
attempt  to  shoot  the  deep-voiced  ruffian  by  moon- 
light 

"  'Twould  be  a  right  charitable  job,"  he  muttered, 
"  to  fill  you  full  of  lead,  you  platter-faced  scoundrel ! " 
But  he  thought  of  the  light  charges  in  his  shells  and 
swung  the  paddle  again.  Every  farmer  and  farmer's 
wife  along  the  river  were  friends  of  his,  and  for  a 
certainty  the  owl  would  have  never  lifted  another 
fowl  had  there  been  any  reasonable  chance  of  bagging 
him. 

Rounding  a  bend  farther  up,  the  dog  shifted 
uneasily,  and  Marse  Ned  could  feel  the  vibration 
from  his  nervous  twitching  through  the  light  frame 
of  the  canoe. 

"What  is  it,  old  fellow?"  he- whispered.  The 
answer  came  like  a  flash.  A  sudden,  tumultuous 


A  Day  witb  the  Woodcock  177 

splashing  in  the  water,  a  rapid  splattering  of  wings, 
then  a  succession  of  low,  sweet,  whistling  cries, 
"  O-eek-o-eek ! "  explained  the  dog's  excitement. 
The  canoe  had  glided  across  a  small  expanse  of  lily- 
pads  and  had  almost  run  down  a  flock  of  slumbering 
wood-duck. 

It  grew  lighter  and  lighter,  until  he  could  discern 
small  fry  swimming  close  to  the  canoe.  Presently 
he  detected  a  slow-moving  ripple  gradually  nearing, 
and  exclaiming,  "  Lie  down,  Don  ! "  he  raised  the 
paddle  and  struck  a  deadly  blow  at  a  dark,  half- 
defined  shape  passing.  The  victim  proved  to  be 
a  ten-pound  catfish  that  had  tempted  fate  while 
floundering  along  on  business  of  its  own.  "  That'll 
suit  the  old  man,"  he  muttered  as  he  cast  it  into  the 
canoe.  Then  the  paddle  was  plied  faster  and  the 
craft  darted  along  in  and  out  of  the  shadows  like  a 
winged  thing.  Soon  the  objective  point  was  gained, 
and  a  voice  from  shore  asked  :  — 

"  Dat  yo',  Marse  Ned  ?  I  know  it  is,  fur  I  see  de 
dawg." 

"  All  right,  old  partner,  we're  both  here,"  and  in  a 
moment  the  canoe  was  lifted  out  and  overturned  for 
the  night.  "  Whar  de  debbil  yo  get  dat  big  cat  ? 
My,  he's  a  fat  un  —  de  old  woman  ull  jist  smile  when 
she  sees  um." 

"  Killed  him  with  the  paddle  back  a  bit.  Now 
get  your  stuff  ready  and  let  them  go  to  sleep  inside. 
Here,  take  a  nip,  and  give  the  old  lady  the  catfish." 

"  Don't  know  'bout  dat ;  mebbe  I  best  give  her  de 
cat  fust  an'  den  take  de  drink.  Dat  ar  ole  cullud  lady 
cotch  on  to  whiskey  pow'f ul  smart  —  she  jest  liable 
ter  want  ter  kiss  me  good-nite  if  she  spishuned  me  !  " 


1 78  Sporting  Sketches 

And  the  old  rascal  bore  away  the  fish,  chuckling 
immensely  at  the  bare  idea. 

When  he  returned  they  sat  and  smoked  beside 
the  river  for  an  hour  or  more,  while  Duckett  ex- 
plained how  he  came  to  find  the  woodcock.  Finally 
they  sought  the  little  log  barn,  and  dog  and  all  ere 
long  were  sleeping  on  the  hay. 

At  daylight  they  bestirred  themselves,  and  after 
stowing  away  some  excellent  bread  and  unlimited 
sweet  milk  were  ready  for  the  field.  A  walk  of  a 
mile  and  a  half  brought  them  to  the  creek,  and  a 
plan  of  action  was  speedily  decided  on.  Where  they 
were  the  creek,  or  practically  dry  watercourse,  was 
perhaps  thirty  yards  across,  but  farther  up  it  broad- 
ened in  places  to  five  or  six  times  that  width,  the 
enlargements  being  overgrown  with  tall  willows, 
while  upon  either  bank  was  a  dense  strip  of  thicket. 
In  the  spring  this  creek  was  a  good-sized  stream  and 
a  favorite  resort  for  wood-duck,  but  during  the  dry 
season  it  dwindled  to  a  succession  of  water-holes  in 
a  winding  stretch  of  rich,  black  mud  —  in  fact  be- 
coming what  any  sportsman  would  suspect  to  be 
prime  cock  ground. 

Old  Duckett  carried  a  cheap  "  No.  1 2  "  breech- 
loader, and  as  he  shot  in  his  shirt  sleeves  and  wore 
an  enormously  broad  straw  hat,  his  tout  ensemble  was 
not  calculated  to  encourage  the  idea  that  he  was 
much  of  a  sportsman.  His  cartridges  were  stuffed 
into  his  pockets  and  he  carried  no  game  bag,  but  the 
old  boy  had  a  knack  of  putting  a  couple  of  woodcock 
into  the  crown  of  his  hat  on  a  pinch,  and  could  stow 
away  a  few  more  inside  his  capacious  shirt  front  if 
needs  be.  After  admiring  the  handsome  little  "  six- 


A  Day  with  tbe  Woodcock  179 

teen  "  of  his  comrade,  and  making  divers  pointed 
queries  in  regard  to  its  shooting  qualities,  he  an- 
nounced that  he  was  ready  for  business.  Only  one 
side  of  the  creek  offered  likely  shelter  for  the  birds, 
and  the  keen  old  man  at  once  volunteered  to  take  it, 
saying :  — 

"  Yo'  g'lang  in  de  open  and  work  de  dawg  between 
us  far  as  dat  ole  tree  [about  three  hundred  yards], 
and  I'll  beat  de  brush.  Den  yo'  take  de  brush  an' 
me  de  open  for  de  same  distance,  see  ?  "  The  other 
saw,  and  also  noticed  that  the  arrangement  would 
certainly  give  the  other  the  privilege  of  being  in  "  de 
open "  at  a  very  promising  stretch,  and  he  gravely 
suspected  that  the  dusky  worthy  made  the  proposi- 
tion with  malicious  intent ;  but  he  said  nothing  and 
they  then  started. 

The  dog  worked  close  in  advance,  worming  his 
way  hither  and  thither  through  the  rank  grasses  and 
ferns  of  the  creek's  bed  and  in  and  out  of  the  cover 
upon  the  bank,  until  he  suddenly  halted  where  a  few 
spear-like  leaves  of  rushes  marked  a  damper  spot. 
He  made  a  very  pretty  picture  as  he  stood  curved 
almost  to  a  semicircle,  his  white  back  and  lemon 
head  sharply  defined  against  the  tangle  of  green,  and 
his  eyes  staring  intently  at  a  clump  of  ferns  almost 
touching  him,  while  his  jaws  opened  and  closed  with 
slow  convulsive  gasps,  as  though  he  would  measure 
his  panting  breath  lest  it  should  disturb  the  hidden 
game. 

As  his  owner  approached  there  rose  a  shrill, 
quavering  whistle  thrice  repeated,  and  three  birds 
fluttered  away  with  an  uncertain  bat-like  flight,  the 
trio  springing  close  together,  and,  as  frequently  hap- 


i8o  Sporting  Sketches 

pens,  some  few  yards  from  the  spot  indicated  by  the 
dog.  One  vanished  over  the  wall  of  saplings,  but  the 
others  sped  away  side  by  side  up  the  creek.  The  little 
"  sixteen  "  spoke  twice  in  rapid  succession,  one  cock 
coming  down  in  the  open  and  the  other  just  as  the 
leaves  were  closing  behind  him  in  the  brush.  Any 
one  hearing  the  reports  might  have  fancied  that  the 
gun  was  not  properly  charged,  for  they  sounded 
strangely  weak  and  there  was  but  a  suggestion  of 
smoke.  Duckett  evidently  fancied  that  something 
was  wrong,  for  his  voice  sounded  from  the  brush. 

"  What  de  debbil's  wrong  wid  dat  baby  gun  ?  Am 
it  sufferin'  from  a  cold,  or  did  yo'  load  yo'  own 
shells?" 

"  Wood  powder,  you  old  duffer !  "  and  the  owner 
of  the  gun  laughed  aloud,  for  he  guessed  that  the 
mysterious  but  valuable  explosive  was  an  unknown 
quantity  to  his  sable  friend. 

"  Did  yo'  kill  um  ?  "  was  the  next  query,  and  after 
being  answered  in  the  affirmative  the  darky  could 
be  heard  crashing  his  way  through  the  thicket.  His 
over-keenness  made  him  careless,  and  he  flushed  the 
third  bird  and  drove  it  out  directly  in  front  of  the 
weak-voiced  gun,  and  it,  too,  was  secured. 

"  Golly !  dat's  the  funniest-soundin'  stuff  I  ebber 
did  hear.  Whar  yo'  get  dat,  Marse  Ned  ?  " 

"  Now,  see  here,  mister,  you  get  right  back  into 
that  brush !  A  bargain's  a  bargain  and  you're  not 
near  the  tree  yet." 

"But  I'se  jest  —  " 

"  Never  mind  now !  You  just  misfigured  a  trifle, 
that's  all,  and  I  stay  in  the  open •  till  the  tree  is 
reached." 


A  Day  with  the  Woodcock  181 

The  old  man's  face  was  a  study  and  there  was  a 
deal  of  craftiness  in  it  as  he  suggested  "dat  dere 
didn't  'pear  to  be  no  sine  in  de  brush,  an'  he  'lowed 
de  birds  must  all  be  in  de  creek ;  "  but  the  other  was 
inexorable,  declaring  that  the  original  scheme  must 
be  carried  out  to  the  letter. 

"  But  de  dawg's  a-p'intin'  agin." 

"  No,  he's  not ;  he's  got  a  dead  bird  there." 

"  But  yo'  done  got  two  in  yo'  han' ! " 

"  Never  you  mind;   I  killed  three." 

"  Yo'  killed  what  ?  Now  luka  hyar,  Marse  Ned, 
I'se  done  comin'  out  ob  de  brush  right  now.  Yo' 
can't  fool  de  ole  man  no  moah,  gettin'  him  to  tell 
yo'  'bout  cocks  an'  den  sendin'  him  to  hunt  whar 
he  can't  find  none  ob  dem.  I'se  comin'  right  down 
dar,  and  de  next  one  dat  jumps  I'se  gwinter  cut 
loose.  Yo'  heah  me ! "  and  down  he  came  forth- 
with. 

Moving  on  again,  the  dog  soon  located  another 
and  Duckett  claimed  the  shot,  and  when  the  bird 
flushed  he  covered  it  and  doubled  it  up  dead  as  a 
stone  just  before  it  reached  over.  To  say  he  was 
triumphant  but  faintly  expressed  his  feelings;  he 
rose  to  the  sublime,  and  only  returned  to  his  normal 
condition  when  his  proposal  that  he  "  orter  hab  de 
next  two  chances  to  even  up  "  was  firmly  vetoed. 

"  What,  you  old  reprobate !  Do  you  think  you 
can  come  that  on  me  ?  Perhaps  we'd  better  hunt 
every  man  for  himself  and  the  quickest  get  there  !  " 

But  Duckett  knew  better  than  that ;  he  had  tried 
it  once  before  and  had  a  wholesome  dread  of  the 
snap  shooting  that  would  follow,  for  Marse  Ned  was 
"  pow'ful  sudden  "  when  he  chose  to  hurry. 


1 82  Sporting  Sketches 

"  No,  we'se  jist  gwine  to  shoot  right  along,  an' 
yo'  ain't  gwine  to  be  hard  on  de  ole  man,  seein'  dat 
he  tole  yo'  de  birds  was  hyar  ? " 

So  they  proceeded,  and  by  the  time  they  had 
reached  the  first  enlargement  of  the  creek  they  had 
seven  between  them,  the  darky  bagging  a  couple 
and  missing  as  many  more.  Before  beating  what 
looked  a  very  likely  bit,  they  turned  aside  to  visit  a 
little  log-cabin  at  the  door  of  which  sat  an  ancient 
colored  crone. 

"  Got  any  fresh  water,  Aunty  ?  " 

"  Howdy,  sah  ?  Yas,  I'll  fotch  sum.  Good-day, 
Paw  Duckett;  yo'se  a-huntin'  again,  eh?  'Spec's 
mebbe  yo'se  arter  squrls  ?  " 

"  No'm,  me  an'  Marse  Ned  is  a-huntin'  woodcocks ; 
hab  yo'  seen  any  roun'  dis  mawnin'  ? " 

"  Woodcocks  ?  Why,  dey  am  num'rous ;  dey  am 
a-rappin'  on  de  tellygraff  poles  an'  de  fences  all 
day  long ;  didn't  know  dey  was  wuff  a-huntin',"  and 
the  old  lady  picked  herself  up  and  went  for  the  de- 
sired water,  while  Duckett  surmised  "dat  de  ole 
gal  was  pow'ful  iggerant  an'  didn't  know  woodcocks 
from  woodpeckers." 

Returning  again  to  the  swale  they  found  the 
cover  very  dense  in  places  and  agreed  to  separate 
in  order  to  lessen  the  work  for  the  dog,  he  being 
tired  with  his  exertions  in  the  tangled  grass. 

"  Now  mind,  Marse  Ned,  no  climbin'  up  on 
stumps  an'  overreachin'  de  ole  man  like  I'se  knowed 
yo'  to  do.  Just  work  right  froo  all  as  it  comes  an' 
I'll  do  de  same,  an'  we'll  meet  at  de  far  end." 

Birds  were  fairly  numerous,  and  though  quite  a 
number  were  missed  or  got  away  without  giving 


A  Day  with  tbe  Woodcock  183 

a  chance,  still  the  "  sixteen  "  was  kept  pretty  busy, 
and  every  now  and  then  the  louder  report  of  Duck- 
ett's  piece  told  that  he  was  getting  sport.  "  Marse 
Ned,"  however,  noticed  that  several  reports  came 
from  about  the  same  spot,  and  working  over  in  that 
direction  he  found,  as  he  had  suspected,  that  the 
old  rascal  was  in  an  opening  and  waiting  for  birds 
to  be  driven  to  him. 

"  Ho,  ho !  Duckett,  no  climbing  up  on  stumps 
and  fooling  the  old  man,  eh?  You  sinner,  why 
don't  you  hunt  through  it  ?  " 

"  Gimme  time,  Marse  Ned,  gimme  time ;  yo'se  bin 
a-drivin'  'em  over  hyar  so  fast  dat  I  done  had  no 
chance  to  move  'long.  De  ole  man  ain't  so  spry  as 
yo'  be,  shuah  nuff." 

"  Spry  be  hanged !  You're  spry  enough  to  know 
how  to  play  tricks.  Get  into  that  brush  and  to 
work,  or  I'll  fill  you  full  of  shot.  Hustle  now,  or 
look  out  for  yourself  if  I  beat  you  to  the  other  end." 

Duckett,  sorely  against  his  will,  moved  ahead 
through  the  cover,  and  no  sooner  was  he  well 
started  than  Marse  Ned  mounted  a  huge  stump 
and  stood  ready.  Several  birds  flushed  within  easy 
range  and  from  his  commanding  elevation  he  had 
no  trouble  in  bowling  them  over,  leaving  the  task 
of  securing  them  to  the  dog,  who  performed  his 
duties  in  a  faultless  manner.  After  a  few  shots  an 
anxious  voice  exclaimed :  "  Say,  Marse  Ned,  am  yo' 
a-comin'?  Tears  to  me  like  yo'  am  sorter  hangin' 
back  dar." 

Just  then  there  was  a  musical  twitter  of  wings, 
and  a  big  bird  showed  above  the  thicket  and  darted 
for  the  woods,  passing  some  forty  yards  from  the 


184  Sporting  Sketches 

stump.  The  first  shot  missed,  but  the  second 
doubled  the  woodcock  up  like  a  rag  and  sent  it  roll- 
ing down  amid  a  cloud  of  feathers.  Some  distance 
off  in  a  little  gap  in  the  foliage  appeared  a  broad, 
black,  and  very  anxious  face,  and  the  owner  of  it  at 
once  spotted  the  man  on  the  stump. 

"  Hyar,  Marse  Ned !  Too  bad  ob  yo'  to  be 
playin'  roots  on  me  like  dat.  I  knowed  yo'  was  up  to 
some  debiltry.  Yo'  cum  down  offen  dar;  I  ain't 
a-playin'  dawg  fo'  yo'.  But  did  yo'  get  um  ?  " 

"  All  right,  I  got  him,"  and  he  descended  from 
his  perch  and  aided  the  dog  to  find  the  bird ;  and 
after  it  was  secured  the  two  worked  on  until  the  end 
was  reached,  getting  a  couple  of  cock  on  the  way. 
At  the  extreme  end  of  the  swale  was  a  small  clump 
of  willows,  and  they  decided  to  finish  with  it,  as  it 
was  now  growing  excessively  warm  and  the  pointer 
was  dead  beat ;  besides,  Duckett's  prophesied  storm 
was  apparently  not  far  distant.  The  dog  drew  cau- 
tiously through  the  grass,  but  no  sooner  had  he 
neared  the  willows  than  a  cock  flushed,  then  an- 
other, and  another,  evidently  birds  that  had  been 
driven  there  within  a  short  time.  One  made  back 
for  the  swale  and  Marse  Ned  stopped  it,  the  others 
flew  out  in  the  open  and  now  was  Duckett's  chance. 
Ere  he  could  pull  upon  either  Marse  Ned's  second 
barrel  was  fired,  but  the  cock  flew  bravely  on  for 
a  few  yards,  then  came  down  in  response  to  the 
darky's  shot. 

"  Good  on  your  head ;  you've  wiped  my  eye  !  " 
But  Duckett  was  squinting  along  the  rib  after  cock 
number  three,  now  a  good  sixty  yards  off.  "  Shoot, 
man,  sh  —  "  The  trigger  was  at  last  pulled,  and  to 


A  Day  with  the  Woodcock  185 

Marse  Ned's  intense  amazement  the  cock  came 
down  with  a  broken  wing. 

"  Yah !  yah !  de  ole  man  done  got  yo'.  Fotch 
um,  good  dawg !  How  'bout  dat  sneak  powder  an' 
snap  shootin'  now  ?  He !  he !  doant  yo'  nebber  talk 
'bout  shootin'  no  mo'.  I'se  done  gwinter  tell  all  ob 
dem  'bout  dese  doin's,  heah  me !  Oh !  Lordy,  Lordy, 
it  am  better'n  catchin'  five  coons  to  go  an'  do  up 
Marse  Ned  like  dis  yar.  My !  I  wouldn't  hab  miss' 
dat  cock  fur  a  hull  farm.  Marse  Ned,  yo'  am  fluster- 
cated,  yo'  ain't  no  good  nohow.  Yo'  shute  an'  miss 
an'  I  bring  dem  down.  Yo'se  in  de  hole  —  pull  de 
hole  in  arter  yo'  an'  die ! "  and  the  delighted  fellow 
laughed  till  he  could  hardly  stand,  in  which  he  was 
heartily  joined  by  his  friend.  Then  they  sat  down 
in  the  shade  to  examine  the  bag. 

Seventeen  cock  were  arranged  side  by  side, 
Duckett  contributing  seven  birds,  including  a  brace 
from  his  hat  and  a  trio  from  inside  his  shirt.  Marse 
Ned  held  a  big  hen  in  his  hand,  and  pondered  on 
what  a  grand  one  it  might  have  been  two  months 
later.  Right  well  he  knew  the  difference  between 
murdering  cock  in  the  warm  season  and  stopping 
them  when  they  are  strong  and  swift  and  wild  after 
the  first  frosts.  He  had  shot  many  of  them  early 
and  late,  and  experience  had  taught  him  that  such 
sport  as  they  had  enjoyed  that  day  was  not  cock 
shooting  as  it  should  be.  There  was  a  certain 
amount  of  fun  in  it,  'tis  true,  but  it  called  for  only 
moderate  skill ;  and  besides,  there  was  the  stout- 
hearted pointer  utterly  used  up  in  a  few  hours'  time, 
and  fit  only  to  lie  in  the  shade  and  gasp  for  air. 
Later  on  that  same  dog  would  see  the  sun  rise  and 


1 86  Sporting  Sketches 

set  and  still  be  working  merrily,  and  the  cock  would 
dart  swift  and  free  among  the  leafless  maples,  to  be 
stopped  but  by  a  master  hand.  He  had  enjoyed  him- 
self fairly  well,  but  he  had  seen  something  that  sad- 
dened him.  Through  the  very  centre  of  the  cover 
was  a  row  of  stakes  driven  into  the  soil  that  had  fed 
cock  for  years. 

"  Is  that  the  railway  line,  Duckett  ?  " 

"  Yaas,  de  surveyors  were  froo  hyar  'bout  free 
mumfs  back." 

"  Umph !  Old  boy,  we  got  'em  to-day ;  but  next 
season  fellows  will  be  jumping  off  the  trains  and 
hunting  our  grounds  to  death.  There'll  be  a  guide- 
book saying  quail,  cock,  and  grouse  are  plentiful  in 
this  vicinity,  and  twenty  guns  will  be  roaring  in  our 
choicest  covers.  But  let's  dig  out,  for  yonder  comes 
your  storm." 

A  short  distance  away  they  met  a  negro  with  a 
gun.  Quoth  Duckett:  — 

"  Dar  you  be,  hey  ?  But  yo'  done  cum  too  late. 
Dat  ar  Jones  is  allus  a-sneakin'  on  me.  I  tole  yo' 
dat  he  spishuned  sumpfm." 


IBOJIE. 

There  are  those  who  take  their  pleasure  climbing  hills  they 

never  scale, 

Or  in  snubbing  short  some  bucking,  sweating  colt ; 
There  are  others  who  think  Heaven's  but  a  rope's  length  from 

the  tail 

Of  a  long-horned  brindled  steer  in  mad  revolt. 
Others  clinch  with  mountain  lions  as  sure  antidote  for  care, 
While  others  trail  the  moose  and  caribou, 
And  now  and  then  one  tackles  half  a  ton  of  grizzly  bear 
And  enjoys  the  maddest  dance  he  ever  knew. 
Let  them  have  their  little  pleasures  with  such  hairy,  scary  toys  — 
For  mine  the  whitecaps  and  the  snorting  breeze, 
A  heeling  cat-boat  handled  by  two  husky  sailor  boys 
And  the  troll-line  straining  through  the  choppy  seas  ! 

IN  bluefishing,  one  of  the  hardest  things  to  catch 
is  the  boat  —  that  is,  the  proper  boat.  I  have 
caught  most  every  sort  of  boat,  or  rather  quite  a  lot 
of  them  have  caught  me ;  but  we  must  live  and 
learn.  The  wrong  boat  is  undesirable  in  many 
ways,  chiefly  because  it  is  apt  to  contain  the  wrong 
skipper,  and,  if  crew  there  be,  the  wrong  crew.  On 
the  principle,  I  suppose,  that  two  or  more  wrongs 
never  made  a  right,  the  man  who  unfortunately 
engages  the  wrong  outfit  is  mighty  apt  to  find  his 
pleasure  seriously  hampered  by  limits.  It  is  there- 
fore well  to  inspect  the  craft  and  size  up  her  owner 
in  advance  if  possible,  for  of  those  who  go  down  to 

187 


1 88  Sporting  Sketches 

the  sea  in  ships,  especially  cheesy-planked,  paint- 
tinkered  ships,  quite  a  few  are  foggy  in  their  con- 
ceptions of  what  constitutes  a  square  deal  —  land 
measure.  For,  be  it  known,  there  are  a  few,  merci- 
fully only  a  few,  skippers  of  crafts  for  hire,  who 
appear  to  labor  under  the  delusion  that  a  man  from 
New  York  is  a  sort  of  little  brother  to  a  distillery 
and  naturally  a  man  of  proper  spirit.  While  un- 
doubtedly a  good  deal  of  the  true  spirit  of  sport  has 
been  transferred  to  paper  and  canvas,  it  has  never 
been  put  up  in  glass,  hence  the  wise  man  will  keep 
that  section  of  the  stores  solely  for  emergency. 

But  there  are  A.  B.  skippers  and  stanch  craft, 
though  but  few  of  the  rating  of  Captain  H.  and  his 
beloved  Osprey.  Long,  lean,  and  weather-checked 
as  a  stick  from  some  old  pirate,  Cap  might  pose  for 
a  study  of  the  Ancient  Mariner  himself.  The 
Osprey,  too,  is  an  ancient.  Only  the  boys  of  the 
Old  Brigade  can  recall  when  she  was  the  crack  of 
her  class  —  in  fact,  a  racing  single-sticker  of  more 
than  ordinary  merit.  She  has  one  modern  improve- 
ment which  must  almost  break  her  heart,  but  which 
is  exceedingly  useful  during  windless,  midsummer 
days.  It  is  a  gasoline  engine  which  Cap  introduced 
for  the  purpose,  as  he  invariably  explains,  of  "  kickin' 
her  along  home  so's  the  city  fellers  kin  be  sure  of 
ketchin'  their  train." 

The  Osprey  has  a  crew,  too,  —  a  taciturn,  weather- 
beaten,  bow-legged  crew,  —  with  a  breast  huge  and 
hairy  as  a  cow's  paunch  —  and  arms,  ye  gods ! 
such  arms !  Silent,  no-necked,  barrel-like,  when  he 
wanted  to  go  anywhere  he  never"  attempted  to  use 
his  amazingly  short,  parenthetical  legs.  Instead,  he 


Bluefisb  and  Blue  Waters  189 

merely  reached  with  either  hand,  then  the  whole  of 
him  followed  the  hand  with  an  easy  swing  star- 
tlingly  suggestive  of  tropical  tree-tops.  Cap  noticed 
my  close  watch  upon  the  movements  of  that  crew, 
and  presently  said :  "  He's  a  wonder.  Never  nothin' 
to  say — jest  slides  round  as  easy  as  grease.  But 
he  comes  by  it  honest.  His  dad  was  skipper  of  a 
merchantman  in  the  African  trade,  an'  his  ma'am 
was  as  good  a  sailor  as  the  old  man.  I've  heard  her 
tell  of  mighty  queer  places  where  she's  been,  full  of 
niggers  an'  gorrills  an'  the  like  o'  that." 

"  A-a-ah  !  "  was  my  sole  comment,  for  at  the  mo- 
ment that  crew  was  swinging  for'ard,  using  his 
arms  as  a  cripple  uses  crutches. 

At  this  season,  the  bluefish  (Pomatomus  saltatrix) 
is  given  to  prowling  along  the  coast,  probably  as  far 
north  as  the  Canadian  boundary.  The  range  of  the 
fish  appears  to  mainly  depend  upon  the  temperature 
of  the  water  as  well  as  upon  the  movements  of  the 
great  schools  of  lesser  fish  upon  which  the  bluefish 
preys.  According  to  scientists,  it  is  found  in  the 
Mediterranean,  near  Australia,  the  Cape  of  Good 
Hope,  and  other  remote  points.  It  is  known  by 
several  names,  such  as  "  horse-mackerel,"  "  blue 
snapper,"  and  "skip-jack."  In  New  York  waters, 
the  young  bluefish  are  commonly  termed  "  snap- 
pers"; and  right  well  do  they  deserve  the  name. 
From  mere  babyhood  to  a,  perhaps,  twenty-pound 
"  tide-runner,"  the  bluefish  is  a  remorseless  destroyer 
of  the  menhaden,  mullet,  squid,  and  presumably  of 
other  fish  of  suitable  size,  which  term,  in  bluefish 
estimation,  is  apt  to  mean  anything  which  can  be 
snapped  in  half,  or  bolted  whole. 


190  Sporting  Sketches 

Powerful,  carnivorous,  seemingly  insatiable,  a 
school  of  mature  bluefish  is  worse  than  a  pack  of 
wolves  so  far  as  wanton  destructiveness  is  con- 
cerned. The  wolf  will  slaughter,  gorge,  and  sleep 
till  again  hungry,  but  the  fish  seems  to  slay  for  the 
mere  lust  of  slaughter.  Close  observers  have 
claimed  that  a  blue  bravo  will  cram  himself  to  the 
jaws  with  food,  then  eject  it  all  and  resume  the 
slaughtering  and  stuffing  and  repeat  again  and 
again.  While  not  disputing  it,  there  may  be  an 
explanation  of  such  outrageous  voracity  in  the  fact 
that  the  fierce  grip  of  blue  jaws  is  apt  to  cut  a  soft 
victim  in  two  and  the  floating  section  to  be  mis- 
taken for  a  part  first  swallowed,  then  ejected,  by  the 
destroyer. 

Murderous  and  senseless  as  such  an  attack  seems 
at  first  glance,  it  may  be,  most  likely  it  is,  one  of 
Nature's  wise  provisions  for  the  welfare  of  her  feebler 
folk.  The  wasteful,  snapping  blues  may  leave  their 
long  trail  littered  with  unsavory  mess,  may  drive 
the  terrified  mossbunkers  in  crowds  upon  the  deadly 
sand,  but  who  follow  ?  The  keen-eyed  gull  and 
wheeling  tern  can  read  "  sign  "  from  afar.  They 
know  the  veering  ripple  which  marks  the  flight  of 
the  jammed  mossbunkers  and  why  silvery  forms 
shoot  above  the  surface,  or  strand  upon  the  beach. 
They  know  the  blue  terror  merely  as  a  lovable, 
philanthropic  gentleman,  who,  in  the  great  goodness 
of  his  heart,  fares  forth  for  sport  where  they  may 
see  and  kindly  leaves  them  fair  share  of  his  quarry. 
In  such  cases,  a  lot  may  depend  upon  the  point  of 
view  —  possibly  even  upon  the  point  of  view  of  the 
miserable  mossbunker.  Yet  who  is  a  greasy  moss- 


Bluefisb  and  Blue  Waters  191 

bunker,  anyhow,  that  he  should  dare  to  question  the 
right  of  my  lords  of  the  sea  and  the  shore  ?  And 
then  there  are  the  slow,  stiff-jointed  things  forever 
crawling  the  sea-bottom.  A  heap  of  mossbunker 
must  eventually  fall  their  way,  and  it  saddens  the 
heart  to  think  how  they  might  never  even  get  a 
smell  of  mossbunker  —  and  the  smell  of  some  stages 
of  mossbunker  is  something  like  a  smell !  —  were  it 
not  for  the  charitable  bluefish  and  his  somewhat 
reckless  method  of  distributing  things. 

The  secret  of  Dame  Nature's  perfect  success  as 
landlady  of  the  Hotel  Earth  lies  in  the  fact  that  she 
never  wastes  anything.  If  there  were  the  slightest 
of  wasteful  methods,  eventually  there  would  be  a 
shortage,  which  there  is  not.  There  may  be  an 
apparent  shortage,  an  actual  scarcity  of  one  or  many 
forms  of  life,  but  that  does  not  necessarily  mean  a 
real  decrease  in  the  amount  of  life  in  the  world.  A 
dead  bluefish  certainly  means  a  gap  in  the  ranks  of 
the  blue  host,  but  by  no  means  a  similar  gap  in  the 
marvellous  plan  of  Nature.  The  bent-wing  tern,  the 
crab  sidling  drunkenwise,  or  one  or  more  of  a  host 
of  small  creatures,  may  be  that  defunct  bluefish  done 
up  in  another  style  of  package.  Our  Puritan  pro- 
genitors were  promiscuously  planted  upon  certain 
headlands  of  our  older  East.  That  those  same  head- 
lands are  none  too  fertile  to-day  is,  perhaps,  but  natu- 
ral, for  the  sainted  forebears,  according  to  reports, 
were  kind  of  lean  and  lacking  in  warmth  and  rich- 
ness. Anyhow,  be  it  meat,  or  meal,  no  truly  scien- 
tific mind  ever  would  tolerate  the  idea  that  Standish 
&  Co.  ever  really  ceased  to  do  business  at  the  old 
stand.  Unseen,  unsuspected,  they  are  to-day,  as  it 


192  Sporting  Sketches 

were,  in  our  midst,  but  —  well,  at  all  events  there  is 
no  waste,  which  was  the  original  contention. 

The  most  common  methods  of  taking  the  blue- 
fish  are  trolling,  or  squidding,  with  long  lines  from 
a  sailboat,  and,  from  the  beach,  with  a  stout  hand- 
line.  Not  a  few  keen  anglers  use  a  heavy  rod  with 
fair  success,  but  this  is  not  the  typical  method.  The 
tackle  needs  must  be  strong,  and,  owing  to  the  cut- 
ting power  of  the  blues'  jaws,  hooks  are  attached  to 
wire,  or  the  stoutest  of  gimp.  Even  then  it  is  not 
uncommon  for  the  tackle  to  be  cut,  either  by  a 
hooked  fish  happening  to  get  the  cord  between  its 
jaws,  or  by  the  bait  being  forced  up  the  line  and 
inducing  a  second  fish  to  snap  at  it.  The  usual 
baits  for  trolling  are  an  eelskin,  or  a  bit  of  rag,  but 
a  bluefish  will  strike  almost  anything  of  proper  size 
that  keeps  briskly  moving.  For  work  with  the  rod, 
the  most  reliable  baits  are  lobster-tail,  shedder-crab, 
chopped  mossbunker,  or  other  bait-fish. 

The  fishing  from  the  beach  is  the  genuine  heave- 
and-haul  —  the  old-fashioned  handline  of  boyhood 
days  glorified.  The  heavy  squid  plays  the  part  of 
sinker,  and  the  way  it  will  carry  out  a,  perhaps, 
hundred-yard  line  from  a  skilled  hand  is  a  wonder 
to  behold.  And  by  that  same  token,  the  gay  and 
reckless  manner  in  which  it  can  act  up  when  manipu- 
lated by  a  novice  is  still  more  wonderful.  Three 
important  things  govern  the  use  of  this  tackle  —  i.e. 
the  squid  must  go  far  enough  to  straighten,  maybe, 
one  hundred  yards  of  cord ;  the  line  must  run  out 
freely  and  smoothly,  and  the  hand-over-hand  recovery 
must  start  so  soon  as  the  squid  has  touched  the 
water,  and  be  maintained  at  an  even,  rapid  rate 


Bluefisb  and  Blue  Waters  193 

until  there  is  a  strike,  or  the  squid  has  passed  within 
the  limit  of  good  water.  The  prowling  blues  feed 
outside  the  surf,  hence  the  squid  should  strike  the 
water  well  beyond  that  point. 

The  amateur  squidder  frequently  makes  fast  the 
home  end  of  the  line  about  his  waist,  or  to  some  bit 
of  wreckage,  or  other  convenient  hold,  and  neatly 
coils  the  line  upon  the  ^sand.  Experts  term  this 
"  lubberly,"  and  hold  the  coils  in  one  hand,  a  thing 
which  no  novice  should  attempt.  For  the  heave,  a 
right-handed  expert  holds  the  line  in  that  hand  at  a 
point  his  preferred  distance  above  the  squid,  which 
is  started  slowly  swinging  around  his  head.  When 
nicely  going,  the  speed  is  increased  till  the  whirling 
tackle  fairly  whistles ;  then,  at  precisely  the  right 
instant,  the  final  heave  is  given.  The  squid  hums 
seaward  like  an  arrow,  the  line  hisses  after,  and 
when  everything  is  as  it  should  be,  the  squid 
plunges  into  the  water  ahead  of  an  almost  straight 
line.  Expert  heaving  is  a  beautiful  thing  to  watch, 
but  the  ambitious  novice  will  do  well  to  practise  a 
bit  before  posing  in  front  of  a  seashore  crowd. 
I  once  saw  a  blooming,  blond  Briton  in  a  blatant 
bathing-suit  hook  himself  about  the  only  place 
where  a  big  hook  could  enjoy  a  fair  chance,  where- 
upon the  plaudits  of  a  mixed  audience  rendered  a 
swift  retreat,  a  surgeon,  a  file,  and  a  few  other  things 
—  stern  necessities. 

A  squidder  should  wear  stout  gloves,  but  many 
enthusiasts  gamely  tackle  the  job  bare-handed  and 
learn  about  the  scarifying  power  of  sharp  sand  and 
a  straining  cord.  To  pull  a  fighting  blue  through 
the  surf  is  no  easy  task.  Quite  frequently  the 


194  Sporting  Sketches 

squidder,  upon  feeling  a  strike,  swiftly  turns  about, 
slips  the  line  over  a  shoulder,  and  runs  up  the  beach 
till  the  fish  is  dragged  ashore.  For  this  vigorous 
sport,  the  best  costume  is  an  old  bathing-suit,  and, 
because  my  feet  have  suffered  from  bits  of  shell 
and  other  odds  and  ends,  I  believe  in  old  yachting, 
tennis,  or  lacrosse  shoes.  This  hint  is  given  solely 
for  the  benefit  of  those  who  may  desire  to  don  fash- 
ionable foot-gear  when  the  fishing  is  over. 

And  now  the  trolling,  which  is  by  far  the  most 
popular  form  of  bluefishing  and  which  each  sum- 
mer gladdens  or  disappoints  thousands  who  turn 
for  holiday  pleasure  to  the  Big  Salt-Bath.  Once 
aboard  your  cat-boat  and  well  off-shore,  the  all-im- 
portant thing  is  to  locate  fish.  Let  it  be  under- 
stood that  the  strong,  moderately  long  trolling 
tackle  is  supplied  with  the  boat,  and  we  will  return 
to  the  Osprey,  which  is  lying  in  the  channel  await- 
ing her  patrons. 

Over  the  heaving  blue  a  cloud  of  snowy  terns  was 
wheeling  and  dropping,  and  it  was  easy  to  guess 
what  massacre  of  innocents  had  baited  the  graceful 
air-rovers. 

"  Look  lively ! "  roared  Cap,  pointing  at  the  water 
where  flecks  of  white  suspiciously  like  fragments  of 
fish  were  speeding  past.  My  line  seemed  to  be 
quivering  with  anticipation,  yet  we  slid  on  and  on 
with  nothing  more  startling  than  the  continuous 
drag  of  the  tackle. 

"We've  overrun  'em.  Yonder  they  be  —  an 
'bout  we  go  !  "  warmed  Cap,  and  the  Osprey  wheeled 
and  went  driving  toward  the  guidi-ng  terns. 

"You  sea-jackals — you  fiends  upon  angel-wings" 


195 

—  I  muttered  at  the  fowl  —  "  would  you  betray  —  " 
but  the  thought  snapped  like  an  o'erstrained  wire, 
for  lo  !  what  felt  like  the  behemoth  of  old  was  jerk- 
ing at  my  tackle.  The  Anthropoid  fell  forward  upon 
his  hands,  his  shoulders  level  with  his  ears,  his 
eyebrows  twitching  up  and  down  in  joyous  antici- 
pation, while  I  snatched  at  the  apparently  hot  cord 
and  kept  a  big  blue  coming  so  fast  that  he  only 
touched  water  at  intervals.  Over  the  side  he  came 
bleeding  like  a  pig,  and  in  a  moment  the  hook  was 
freed  and  overboard.  The  fish  was  not  nearly  so 
large  as  his  pulling  power  had  suggested,  but  there 
were  more  to  follow.  Leaving  the  captive  to  the 
tender  paws  of  the  Anthropoid,  I  braced  for  the 
second  round,  which  was  not  long  delayed.  An- 
other fish,  and  another  and  another,  speedily  followed. 
So  far  as  I  could  see  they  were  exactly  alike  in  size, 
gameness,  and  strength.  Within  a  couple  of  hours 
we  had  killed  about  a  dozen  fish ;  then  the  terns 
disappeared,  and  for  some  time  the  troll  dragged 
vainly.  Cap  was  idly  humming  to  himself,  when 
the  Anthropoid  grunted  and  pointed  shoreward. 
I  could  see  no  terns  nor  anything  except  water,  but 
the  Osprey  came  about  and  Cap  explained  —  "He 
seen  somethin'  jump  —  we'll  jest  try  it." 

How  the  Anthropoid  had  conveyed  his  knowledge 
concerning  whatever  had  jumped,  was  a  mystery  to 
me.  Certainly  he  had  not  spoken,  but  for  all  that  it 
was  his  privilege  to  convey  facts  according  to  his 
lights.  That  he  had  seen  something  was  presently 
proved  by  a  tremendous  jerk  at  the  tackle.  In  an 
instant  I  had  all  I  could  attend  to,  for  that  fish 
fought  like  a  salmon.  Watchful  Cap  threw  the 


196  Sporting  Sketches 

Osprey  into  the  wind,  otherwise  the  tackle  might 
have  suffered.  As  it  was,  there  followed  quite  a 
fight,  which  ended  with  the  coming  aboard  of  a 
grand  blue,  which  felt  like  a  ten-pounder  and  which, 
upon  unprejudiced  scales,  actually  did  weigh  a 
trifle  over  eight  pounds.  He  gave  me  quite  a  start, 
too,  by  viciously  snapping  at  my  fingers.  There 
was  no  mistake  about  it  —  the  beggar  tried  to  bite  — 
so  I  gave  him  a  course  in  marline-spike  seamanship 
by  swatting  him  over  the  head  with  that  useful  and 
singularly  effective  implement. 

Then  the  breeze  failed,  and  while  the  little  engine 
was  slowly  "  kickin' "  the  Osprey  homeward,  I  fell 
asleep  forward  and  dreamed  of  brutal  blues  that  bit 
and  of  a  crew  that  swung  itself  hither  and  yon  with 
surpassing  ease.  When  finally  that  crew  sat  before 
me,  and  —  after  twitching  its  eyebrows  up  and 
down,  scratching  with  swift  upward  strokes  at  its 
ribs,  and  showing  some  amazing  teeth  —  it  calmly 
produced  a  cocoanut  from  one  armpit  and  a  banana 
from  the  other,  I  —  woke  up.  And  there,  right 
beside  me,  was  that  crew,  monkeying  with  the  jib- 
sheet,  or  some  old  thing,  for  the  Osprey  was  very 
near  her  nest. 


FOR  months  we  had  slowly  staged  westward. 
From  the  trout  waters  of  Superior's  grand  north 
shore,  through  the  moose  ranges  of  eastern  Mani- 
toba, across  the  vast  expanses  of  game-haunted  plains 
to  the  Rockies,  and  thence  westward  ever  through 
Nature's  picture-gallery,  where  peak,  cliff,  and  canon 
combine  in  so  many  hundred  miles  of  magnificence. 

And  at  last,  at  the  turning-point,  we  two  stood 
beside  the  sheeny  flood  of  Burrard  Inlet,  awaiting 
the  sun's  appearance  above  distant  sea-mists.  Slowly, 
like  white-canvased  ships,  the  snowy  shapes  of  fog 
slipped  their  intangible  cables  and  drifted  seaward, 
until  the  last  had  vanished  and  we  saw  all  the 
dreamy  beauty  of  the  coast. 

Behind  us  spread  the  sudden  straggling  growth  of 
lusty  young  Vancouver,  yet  showing  traces  of  that 
conflagration  which  virtually  wiped  out  the  original 
town.  Below  our  feet  were  the  spidery  webs  of 
timbers  supporting  long  irregular  piers,  among 
which  flitted  solemn  crows,  strangely  tame  to  one 
familiar  with  the  wary  eastern  species,  and  ever 
poking  and  prying  among  the  ooze  for  what  the 

197 


198  Sporting  Sketches 

tide  had  left.  In  front,  a  big,  black  coal  hulk  sul- 
lenly tugged  at  her  cables,  and  beyond  spread  a 
noble  expanse  of  shining  water,  a  magnificent, 
almost  landlocked  harbor. 

Away  across  on  the  farther  shore,  a  white  mass 
flashed  —  the  Indian  Mission  and  rude  cottages  of 
that  strange,  west-shore  remnant  of  a  people  who 
claim  not  kindred  with  the  dethroned  bronze  rulers 
of  the  great  plains.  Above  the  Mission,  and  as  far 
as  eye  could  range,  towered  a  stately  cordon  of 
softly  rounded,  densely  forested  mountains,  mighty 
masses  of  softening  greens,  grays,  browns,  and  mist- 
ing purples,  their  crests  supporting  the  flawless  blue, 
their  velvet  shadows  stretching  far  down  into  the 
flood.  These  steeps  are  the  seaward  battlements  of 
those  Titanic  rockworks  piled  in  such  magnificent 
disorder  within  the  confines  of  British  Columbia. 

To  the  south  the  panorama  of  peaks  dwindled 
and  softened  in  grand  distances  to  where  that  snow- 
helmed  giant,  Baker,  gleams  above  the  good  state 
of  Washington.  To  the  north  were  "  The  Lions," 
couched  in  everlasting  stone  above  forests  of  stately 
conifers ;  and  beyond  them  purple  peak  after  peak 
—  stern  interrogation-points,  solemnly  questioning 
the  sky.  Below,  and  much  nearer,  lay  the  rippling 
Narrows,  the  harbor  entrance,  above  which  towered 
the  grimly  hewn  face  of  precipitous  Brockton  Point. 

This  point  is  one  of  the  features  of  one  of  the 
loveliest  reservations  imaginable,  —  Stanley  Park, 
Vancouver's  special  pride.  Under  a  tangle  of  foliage 
strangely  suggestive  of  the  tropics  extend  nine 
miles  of  smooth  shell  road,  the  very  thing  for  long 
tramps.  The  enormous  growth  of  the  conifers, 


A  Vancouver  Salmon  199 

ferns,  and  mosses  is  proof  abundant  of  a  kindly 
clime.  Huge  cedars  suggest  the  famed  big  trees  of 
California ;  gigantic  firs,  straight  as  lances,  taper  to 
green  points  near  one  hundred  yards  overhead,  while 
everywhere  in  the  deep  shade  rise  fern  fronds  higher 
than  a  tall  man's  head  to  meet  the  ever  present  pen- 
dent beards  of  gray  moss.  Across  the  white  roads 
ruffed  grouse  mince  out  of  the  pedestrian's  way, 
clucking  softly  as  they  go  with  many  halts  and  in- 
nocent glances.  Firearms  are  not  allowed  within 
the  park,  and  the  birds  know  that  safe  cover  is  but 
one  short  leap  away.  And  such  cover  !  Crowding, 
graceful  ferns,  so  tall  that  a  ruffed  grouse  flushing 
near  one's  foot  can  buzz  away  unseen. 

From  the  crest  of  the  cliff  of  Brockton  Point,  the 
rough-hewn  descent  is  so  nearly  vertical  as  to  pre- 
sent an  apparent  overhang,  and  it  measures  more 
feet  than  a  man  could  fall  and  live,  even  though  he 
struck  nothing  firmer  than  deep  salt  water.  Upon 
the  green,  moist  boulders  at  the  base  at  that  time 
rested  a  most  interesting  wreck,  the  little  Beaver. 
To  that  humble  craft  belonged  the  honor  of  being 
the  first  steam  vessel  to  plough  Pacific  billows.  She 
sailed  round  the  Horn  in  1836,  carrying  her  boiler 
and  engine  as  ballast,  the  intention  being  to  fit  her 
up  at  Vancouver  Island.  Her  commander  was  a 
sturdy  Scot,  and  for  reasons  best  known  to  himself 
he  put  in  at  the  Sandwich  Islands.  The  then  pre- 
vailing monarch  was  a  gentleman  endowed  with  an 
unlimited  cargo  capacity,  a  late  tropical  evening 
complexion,  and  a  curiosity  like  a  well-auger.  He 
heard  of  the  peculiarities  of  the  Beaver  s  works,  and 
straightway  craved  to  see  the  wheels  go  round.  He 


200  Sporting  Sketches 

ordered  the  captain  to  make  those  wheels  go,  or 
explain  why.  The  hardy  salt  parleyed  long  enough 
to  rig  up  a  brass  bow-gun  and  fill  it  full  of  small 
bolts  and  other  odds  and  ends.  Then  he  explained 
that  he  would  blow  the  ham  out  of  the  Sandwiches 
if  any  trouble  was  desired. 

So  the  Beaver  safely  swam  away  to  her  northern 
lodge  to  toil  for  the  Hudson  Bay  Company,  and  her 
snorting  and  blowing  struck  terror  to  the  soul  of 
many  an  Indian  from  Astoria  to  Chilkat.  Lieuten- 
ant Fender  used  her  while  making  surveys  and 
soundings  of  coast  and  waters.  In  1889  the  little 
craft  was  cast  upon  the  rocks  under  Brockton  Point, 
and  there  the  poor  bones  lay  gathering  mosses  and 
seaweeds  for  funeral  shroud  till  1892.  It  was  queer 
to  watch  great  modern  steam  craft  sweep  past  the 
Pacific's  first  power  boat.  Since  the  day  I  swam 
alongside  in  an  attempt  to  get  a  peep  at  her  interior, 
I've  always  had  a  tender  regard  for  the  Beaver,  and 
it  was  something  like  a  shock  to  read  in  '92  that 
the  drowned  one  was  to  be  haled  to  that  all-grasping 
World's  Columbian  Exposition.  But  the  Beaver 
had  not  forgotten  the  craft  of  her  furry  folk,  so,  pre- 
sumably after  she  had  heard  of  the  intended  moving, 
she  waited  for  a  great  big  roller  and  —  just  dived  ! 

Before  we  had  completed  our  observations  a  small 
boy  ranged  alongside,  and  remarked,  "  Note  for  you, 
sir."  A  new-made  friend  had  read  me  aright,  for 
the  note  ran :  "  Gla-hi-you-tillicum  !  I've  got  a  bran- 
new  canoe  that's  never  been  used.  If  you  care  to 
christen  her  for  me,  she's  at  your  service.  Orders 
at  boat-house." 

"  A    Peterboro   away   out  here ! "  was   my   first 


A  Vancouver  Salmon  201 

thought.  I  had  not  knelt  in  one  for  a  long  year. 
I  said  to  my  comrade :  — 

"  W — ,  old  boy,  we  ought  to  have  a  paddle  to- 
gether; it'll  be  prime  poking  about  under  those 
cliffs.  What  say  you  ?  " 

W — ,  good,  kind,  big-hearted  W — ,  was  game  for 
anything  and  at  once  agreed.  As  we  were  turning 
toward  the  boat-house,  a  tan-colored  Siwash  sped 
past  in  one  of  their  queer  canoes.  W —  said  the 
man  was  going  fishing. 

"  Going  —  what  ?  " 

"  Going  trolling ;  they  catch  any  quantity  of 
salmon  in  the  Narrows  when  the  tide  is  right." 

"  The  mischief  they  do  !  Why  didn't  you  say  so 
before  ? " 

"  Thought  you  were  a  fly-fisher  and  wouldn't  be 
interested.  These  salmon  won't  take  a  fly;  they 
catch  'em  with  big  spoon-hooks." 

"  W — ,  I'm  going  to  catch  a  salmon.  Why,  I 
haven't  caught  a  fish  for  a  whole  week  —  not 
since  the  mountain  trout  at  Harrison  Springs." 

He  was  willing,  so  we  hurried  to  the  hotel  and 
borrowed  a  heavy  line,  to  which  was  bent  a  plain 
spoon,  like  a  table-spoon,  with  a  big  hook  soldered 
to  it.  Armed  with  this  doubtful-looking  outfit,  we 
launched  the  canoe.  She  was  a  beauty,  the  paddles 
were  just  right,  and  it  was  a  treat  to  kneel  upon  a 
handsome  cushion  in  a  spotless,  richly  carpeted  craft, 
and  send  her  flying  over  that  sleepy  water.  As  we 
neared  the  Narrows,  other  Siwashes  in  other  queer- 
looking  canoes  began  trolling,  meanwhile  grinning 
like  wolves  at  our  craft  and  evidently  seeing  some- 
thing very  funny  about  us.  Presently  one  of  them 


202  Sporting  Sketches 

unceremoniously  hauled  in  a  fine  fish,  and  W — 
remarked :  — 

"  Best  put  out  the  troll ;  I'll  paddle,  but  we'll  never 
catch  one.  I  never  catch  anything  except  colds  and 
things  like  that ;  nobody  ever  catches  things  when 
I'm  around.  I'm  a  regular  Jonah." 

"  All  right,  old  boy ;  we'll  presently  catch  a  whale," 
and  out  went  the  troll. 

Now  W —  was  an  old  hand  at  the  paddle,  and  he 
sent  us  along  at  just  the  proper  speed.  Within  easy 
distance  were  half-a-dozen  Siwash  craft,  and  still 
their  dusky  owners  grinned.  Every  now  and  then 
one  of  them  would  lift  a  kicking  salmon,  while  with 
us  it  seemed  as  though  my  comrade's  Jonah  influence 
was  no  myth. 

After  an  hour  of  back-and-forth  work  and  con- 
tinuous grinning  by  our  dusky  associates,  we  almost 
lost  hope  and  edged  over  toward  the  Park.  A  point 
of  rocky  beach  offered  a  safe  place  for  the  canoe, 
and  I  had  begun  to  haul  in  line  when  there  came  an 
unusual  drag.  It  was  not  a  strike,  but  just  a  slow 
dragging  weight  as  though  the  hook  had  fouled  a 
mass  of  weed.  I  had  struck  from  force  of  habit,  and 
kept  hauling  in,  little  thinking  of  a  possible  fish.  A 
slow,  heavy  pull  warned  me  that  whatever  was  on  the 
hook  possessed  some  life.  Nearer  and  nearer  it  drew, 
and  we  became  interested,  wondering  what  strange, 
lazy  victim  was  ours. 

Next  we  saw  a  goodly  fish  of  a  bluish  silver  cast. 
It  looked  like  a  five-pounder,  and,  seemingly,  it 
possessed  the  life  and  vigor  of  a  five-pound  can  of 
white  lead.  Docile  as  a  dog,  it  suffered  itself  to  be 
drawn  within  a  foot  of  the  canoe',  then  poised  a 


A  Vancouver  Salmon  203 

couple  ofr  inches  below  the  surface  to  allow  us  to 
examine  it  at  our  leisure.  Its  jaws  were  quite  arched 
and  pointed,  not  unlike  the  beak  of  an  eagle.  Quoth 
W — ,  "  That's  a  salmon  and  a  good  one ;  pull  him 
in!" 

I  looked  a  moment  longer  and  noticed  that  the 
fish  was  hooked  foul,  for  the  barb  had  pierced  the 
side  of  its  head,  and  it  could  not  break  away  unless 
spoon  or  cord  gave  out.  It  had  come  in  so  easily 
and  lay  there  so  placidly  that  I  despised  it,  and  care- 
lessly raised  the  head  above  water,  and  said :  — 

"  Well,  if  this  is  a  sample  of  your  salmon-trolling, 
I  don't  wonder  you  hesitated  to  talk  about  it.  Why, 
that  big  duffer  is  the  worst  cur  ever  I  saw ;  he  hasn't 
got  enough  sand  in  him  to  make  a  splash,  let 
alone  —  " 

Something  had  happened!  For  an  instant  I 
could  not  realize  what  it  was.  I  knew  I  had  raised 
the  fish's  head  above  water,  and  that  the  jaws  had 
snapped  once  or  twice.  It  must  have  understood 
and  taken  affront  at  my  remark  about  its  inability 
to  splash.  A  quart  of  salt  water  struck  me  in  the 
face,  and  still  the  fish  splashed,  and  splashed,  and 
splashed,  sending  showers  all  over  us,  flirting  water 
with  sudden  sweeps  of  its  powerful  tail,  as  a  bathing 
boy  splashes  with  a  hand. 

W — ,  daintily  garbed  W — ,  got  mad.  He  roared 
and  waxed  abusive  and  tried  to  secure  a  paddle  with 
which  to  slay  the  thing.  I  offered  it  slack,  but  it 
would  have  none,  but  merely  wallowed  about,  splash- 
ing unceasingly.  I  strove  to  twist  it  aboard,  but  got 
deluged,  and  so  did  the  cushions  and  the  carpet, 
also  W — 's  natty  suit.  Then  I  got  mad,  hauled 


204  Sporting  Sketches 

it  close,  got  another  pint  of  water,  seized  the  head 
and  strove  to  hold  it  still.  Never  had  I  tackled  so 
strong  a  fish.  It  felt  like  a  form  of  wet  leather 
crammed  with  powerful  springs  all  working  inde- 
pendently, and  I  guessed  how  salmon  are  able  to 
leap  high  falls  and  stem  raving  currents.  It  seemed 
the  grip  surely  would  squeeze  the  head  from  the 
body,  but  still  the  tail  threshed  and  the  spray  flew. 

At  last  I  raised  the  fish,  whereupon  it  gave  a 
sudden  unholdable  wriggle,  rapped  my  nose  with 
its  tail,  then  fell  upon  our  carpet  and  began  throw- 
ing handsprings  in  all  directions.  It  flopped  under 
W —  and  beat  upon  his  lower  attire,  every  blow 
leaving  a  welt  of  reddish  slime.  Then  it  rapped 
three  hard  knocks  with  the  wonderful  caudal,  de- 
livered all  the  blood  it  had  left  upon  our  carpet,  and 
—  died! 

We  stared  in  amazement  for  a  moment,  then  W — 
opened  and  his  speech  was  carelessly  chosen. 

"  Steady,  old  boy,  these  canoes  are  cranky.  Let's 
get  on  good  solid  rock  and  then  air  our  views." 

Such  a  washing,  and  scraping,  and  fussing  as 
there  was,  before  our  late  dainty  craft  and  ourselves 
again  were  presentable.  Only  the  scenery  and  a 
smoke  smoothed  our  ruffled  feelings.  It  was  not 
until  we  had  shoved  off  for  the  pleasant  homeward 
way,  and  had  cast  burning  glances  at  the  dead  thing, 
that  W —  ventured  to  ask :  — 

"  Well,  how  do  you  like  our  salmon  ?  " 

"  Canned !  And  the  next  time  a  bombshell  full 
of  beef  blood  fouls  my  troll,  I'll  cut  the  tackle ! 
See?" 


(CMAPTEIR  X 


OF  the  great  order  Anseres  the  family  Anatida 
contains  a  couple  of  hundred  species  which  have 
been  grouped  in  five  sub-families,  viz.  :  the  swans 
(Cygnince]  ;  the  geese  (Anserine)  ;  the  sea-ducks 
(Fuligulinez)  ;  the  river-ducks  (Anatina]  ;  and  the 
fish-eating  ducks  (MergimK\  Among  the  river- 
ducks  are  found  valuable  and  beautiful  species, 
yet  none  more  daintily  arrayed  than  the  wood  or 
summer  duck  (Aix  sponsa). 

From  Asiatic  waters  has  come  a  small  web-footed 
fop  whose  garb  suggests  a  blending  of  Chinese  and 
Japanese  sartorial  art.  He  is  no  mean  rival  of  the 
wood-duck,  and  the  same  might  be  said  of  the  rare 
and  lovely  Harlequin  ;  yet  if  perfect  specimens  of  the 
males  of  all  three  species  lay  side  by  side,  in  most 
eyes  the  wood-duck  surely  would  find  the  most 
favor. 

As  is  the  case  with  so  many  other  species,  the 
male  wood-duck  sports  all  the  finery  in  his  family. 
By  this  is  not  meant  that  his  trim  small  spouse  is  a 
bit  of  a  dowdy,  for  that  would  be  far  from  the  truth. 
She  is  as  dainty  and  tidy  a  wee  madam  as  one  could 
desire  to  see,  but  she  is  wise  withal,  and  the 
Quakerish  simplicity  of  her  dress  might  well  be 

205 


206  Sporting  Sketches 

imitated  by  some  other  ducks  —  but  —  um  —  I 
digress. 

The  notable  peculiarities  of  the  wood-duck  in- 
clude the  rare  beauty  of  the  plumage  of  the  male ; 
the  habit  of  alighting  in  trees ;  the  nesting  in  hollow 
and  not  seldom  lofty  trunks,  sometimes  at  a  con- 
siderable distance  from  water,  and  the  not  infrequent 
carrying  of  the  young  from  the  nest  to  the  nearest 
water.  The  adult  plumage  is  as  follows :  — 

Male.  —  Top  of  head  and  sweeping  crest,  golden 
green ;  sides  of  head,  rich  with  purple  iridescence ; 
bill,  short,  reddish ;  irides,  orange-red ;  from  bill  to 
end  of  crest  extends  a  narrow,  pure  white  line  which 
passes  above  the  eye,  and  from  behind  the  eye  to 
the  end  of  the  crest  is  a  second  white  line,  the  two 
in  sharp  contrast  with  the  lustrous  surroundings  and 
producing  a  striking  effect ;  cheeks  and  sides  of  the 
upper  neck,  violet;  chin,  throat,  and  collar  around 
the  neck,  pure  white,  curving  up  in  crescent  form 
nearly  to  the  posterior  part  of  the  eye.  The  white 
collar  is  bounded  below  with  black;  breast,  dark 
violet-brown,  marked  on  the  forepart  with  minute 
triangles  of  white,  the  spots  increasing  in  size  until 
they  spread  into  the  white  of  the  belly ;  each  side  of 
the  breast  is  bounded  by  a  large  crescent  of  white, 
and  that  again  by  a  broader  one  of  rich  black  ;  sides, 
under  the  wings,  thickly  and  beautifully  marked 
with  fine,  undulating  parallel  lines  of  black,  on  a 
ground  of  yellowish  drab;  flanks,  ornamented  with 
broad,  alternate  semicircular  bands  of  black  and 
white ;  sides  of  vent,  rich  light  violet ;  tail  coverts, 
long,  hair-like  at  the  sides,  black  gMssed  with  green  ; 
back,  dusky  bronze,  reflecting  green;  scapulars, 


Wood-Duck  and  Wood-Duck  Shooting    207 

black ;  tail,  dark  glossy  green  above ;  below,  dusky ; 
primaries,  dusky,  silvery  without,  tipped  with  violet 
blue  ;  secondaries,  greenish  blue,  tipped  with  white ; 
wing  coverts,  violet-blue,  tipped  with  black;  legs 
and  feet,  yellowish.  Total  length,  18-20  inches. 

Female.  —  Head,  slightly  crested ;  crown,  dark 
purple ;  behind  eye,  a  bar  of  white ;  chin  and  throat, 
white;  head  and  neck,  dark  drab;  breast,  dusky 
brown,  marked  with  large  triangular  spots  of  white ; 
back,  dark  glossy  bronze  brown,  with  some  gold  and 
greenish  reflection ;  speculum,  greenish,  like  the 
male ;  the  fine  pencillings  of  the  sides  and  the  hair- 
like  tail  coverts  are  wanting ;  the  tail  also  is  shorter. 

While  it  is  extremely  difficult  to  give  anything 
like  an  accurate  pen  picture  of  a  fowl  which  glitters 
with  metallic  lustre  that  changes  from  bronze  to 
purple  and  golden  green  with  every  play  of  light, 
enough  has  been  said  to  bear  out  the  statement  that 
the  wood-duck  is  exceedingly  beautiful.  As  it  may 
easily  be  tamed,  it  is  not  at  all  unlikely  that  within  a 
few  years  it  will  be  an  attractive  pet  upon  many 
private  waters,  where  certainly  it  is  well  worthy  of  a 
place.  It  is  a  summer  resident,  its  range  being 
North  America,  and  it  winters  in  the  Southern 
states.  It  usually  comes  North  early  in  April  and 
at  once  seeks  ponds,  creeks,  and  small  rivers  bor- 
dered with  more  or  less  standing  timber  which 
offers  in  hollow  trunks,  or  large  limbs,  the  favorite 
sites  for  the  nests.  The  note  of  this  duck  is  a  softly 
sweet,  rather  long-drawn  "  Peet — peet?  the  alarm 
note  a  musical  "  Oe-eek-oe-eek  f  " 

When  a  pair  of  wood-ducks  find  water  and  a 
hollow  tree  to  suit,  little  time  is  lost  in  preparing  the 


208  Sporting  Sketches 

nest.  This  task  and  the  covering  of  the  eggs  are 
performed  by  the  female,  for  to  the  best  of  my 
knowledge  the  male  does  little  more  than  sit  around 
on  handy  limbs  and  look  pretty.  During  the  period 
of  nest  building,  and  while  the  duck  is  laying,  he  is 
the  beau  ideal  of  a  handsome  and  loving  cavalier, 
ever  attentive  and  seemingly  most  anxious  as  to  her 
whereabouts  should  she  happen  to  get  out  of  his 
sight.  But  with  the  waning  of  the  honeymoon  he 
seems  to  feel  rather  bored  with  the  whole  business, 
and  gradually  he  gets  clubby  —  i.e.  wanders  from  his 
own  fireside  and  hunts  up  another  drake  or  two  to 
help  him  loaf  away  the  summer.  The  busy  little 
duck  keeps  her  own  counsel  and  "  sits  tight'"  on  the 
dozen  or  more  highly  polished  ivory-like  eggs 
crowded  together  in  a  bed  of  soft  decayed  wood  and 
down  from  her  breast. 

Quite  frequently  the  nest  is  at  the  bottom  of  a 
hollow  several  feet  deep,  and  no  doubt  the  strong, 
hooked  claws  of  the  wood-duck  are  a  special  provi- 
sion for  the  oft  repeated  climbing  out  of  the  hollow. 
The  newly  hatched  young  are  extraordinarily  active, 
and  so  soon  as  they  are  dry  and  ready  for  their  first 
peep  at  the  outside  world,  either  the  mother  carries 
them  in  her  bill  to  the  ground,  or  they  scramble 
to  the  front  door  and  reach  the  earth  as  best  they 
may.  I  have  kept  close  watch  on  a  number  of  nests, 
and  by  the  aid  of  an  excellent  glass  have  observed 
many  details  of  the  interesting  ceremonies  of  Evac- 
uation Day  in  Woodduckville.  One  nest  in  par- 
ticular was  in  a  huge  hollow  willow  which  had  a 
decided  cant  to  nor'ard  and  whidh  stood  perhaps 
twenty  yards  from  the  stream  and  leaned  from,  not 


Wood- Duck  and  Wood- Duck  Shooting    209 

toward,  the  water,  thus  reversing  the  usual  habit  of 
such  trees.  In  this  tree  were  hatched  eleven  young ; 
and  their  first  flitting  was  as  follows,  as  notes  then 
taken  show :  — 

The  drake  was  conspicuous  by  his  absence,  for  he 
was  neither  in  the  tree,  in  any  near-by  tree,  nor  on 
the  visible  half-mile  of  stream.  An  observation  late 
the  previous  afternoon  had  proved  the  existence  of 
one  newly  hatched  duckling,  which  lay  with  the 
eggs  about  a  foot  below  the  entrance.  Owing  to 
the  peculiar  cant  of  the  tree,  it  was  possible  to  see 
the  eggs  and  learn  what  was  going  on  without  any 
feeling  for  information,  which  is  a  dangerous  experi- 
ment with  the  eggs  of  most  birds. 

Bright  and  early,  therefore,  the  following  morning 
I  took  position  against  a  stump  on  my  side  of  the 
stream.  From  this  point  the  hole  in  the  willow  was 
plainly  exposed,  and  with  the  glass  I  could  see  even 
the  small  scratches  made  by  the  duck's  claws  on  the 
barkless  wood  below  the  doorway  of  her  home.  It 
was  nearly  ten  o'clock  before  the  sun  shone  fairly 
into  the  hole,  and  a  few  minutes  later  the  duck  came 
forth  and  stepped  nimbly  along  the  sloping  trunk 
for  perhaps  a  couple  of  yards.  She  seemed  anx- 
iously alert,  and  for  some  time  stood  erect,  twisting 
her  neck  about  as  though  examining  every  yard 
of  the  surroundings.  Presently  she  scratched  her 
head  with  an  action  so  comically  suggestive  of  a 
certain  class  of  human  thinkers,  that  I  was  forced 
to  smile.  Evidently,  she  was  a  bit  worried,  but 
whatever  may  have  been  the  troublesome  problem, 
she  presently  solved  it  to  her  satisfaction,  for  she 
began  to  preen  her  feathers  in  a  rapid  and  unusually 


2io  Sporting  Sketches 

energetic  manner.  Her  toilet  completed  to  her 
liking,  she  gave  her  tail  a  couple  of  quick  flirts  from 
side  to  side,  then  ran  rapidly  to  the  hole. 

At  the  edge  of  it  she  paused  as  though  staring 
within.  It  is  possible  she  uttered  some  low  call  to 
her  babies  —  her  appearance  suggested  it,  but  I  was 
too  far  away  to  hear.  Finally,  she  thrust  her  head 
and  neck  into  the  hole  and  bent  farther  in  until  only 
her  tail  was  visible.  Clearly  she  was  reaching  down 
as  far  as  she  could.  A  moment  later  she  straightened 
up  and  trotted  down  the  trunk.  Held  by  her  bill 
was  a  duckling,  which  she  released  when  still  a 
couple  of  yards  from  the  ground.  It  remained 
clinging  to  the  bark  exactly  where  she  placed  it. 
As  she  turned  about,  a  second  duckling,  and  then  a 
third  came  out  of  the  hole  and  began  the  descent. 
By  a  series  of  sliding  scrambles  they  reached  the 
spot  where  she  stood  and  for  the  time  made  no 
effort  to  go  farther.  She  remained  motionless, 
seemingly  intently  watching  the  hole.  Three  more 
youngsters  soon  followed  the  leaders.  Sliding, 
creeping,  clinging,  they  covered  three-fourths  of  the 
trip  —  then  one  missed  its  hold  and  fell  to  the 
ground  —  perhaps  ten  feet. 

In  an  instant  she  was  after  it,  and  for  several 
seconds  she  hovered  pigeon-like  above  it.  I  feared 
it  had  been  injured,  but  presently  it  trotted  after  her 
as  she  moved  to  the  foot  of  the  tree.  Meanwhile 
two  more  had  left  the  hole,  one  reaching  its  mates 
on  the  trunk,  the  other  stopping  halfway  and  ap- 
parently hanging  by  a  foot  as  though  a  claw  had 
got  fouled  in  the  bark.  Presumably  it  made  some 
outcry  which  she  could  understand,  for  she  ran  up 


Wood- Duck  and  Wood- Duck  Shooting    211 

the  trunk,  released  it,  and  carried  it  to  the  foot  of 
the  tree,  fluttering  directly  down  instead  of  walking 
past  the  others.  No  sooner  had  she  deposited  it 
than  the  lot  on  the  trunk  made  a  move  to  follow. 
From  their  position  lay  the  steepest  part  of  the  trip, 
and  it  was  made  in  one  quick  slide. 

The  mother  now  showed  signs  of  extreme  anxiety. 
For  some  distance  about  the  tree  the  sandy  soil  was 
practically  bare,  and  clearly  she  did  not  relish  the  idea 
of  having  her  youngsters  too  long  in  such  a  place ; 
yet  there  were  three  in  the  nest.  One  of  these  settled 
the  question  by  coming  out  and  making  the  descent 
in  one  grand  leap.  It  never  hesitated,  but  simply 
sprang  into  the  air,  and  with  rudimentary  wings  and 
small  paddles  stiffly  spread,  it  shot  down  to  the  sand 
and  immediately  ran  to  the  others.  The  mother 
then  leaped  upon  the  trunk,  ran  up  to  the  hole  and 
went  in. 

For  perhaps  five  minutes  she  remained  inside,  and 
when  she  reappeared  she  held  a  young  one,  seem- 
ingly by  the  skin  of  its  back.  With  this  one  she 
fluttered  straight  down,  and  at  once  released  it. 
This  left  one  in  the  nest. 

Most  interesting  performances  present  something 
strong  as  the  closing  act,  and  the  last  baby  duck 
surely  was  the  star  of  the  troupe.  While  his  mother 
was  attending  to  his  small  relative,  this  chap  (I'll 
bet  it  was  a  drake ! )  came  out  of  the  hole.  For 
perhaps  ten  seconds  he  stood  at  the  entrance  as  if 
waiting  for  all  hands  to  give  their  earnest  attention ; 
then  he  started !  No  clawing  at  the  bark,  no  fearsome 
flinching,  nor  any  trace  of  hesitancy — he  was  not 
that  sort.  Whether  or  no  he  lost  his  balance,  I  am 


2i2  Sporting  Sketches 

not  prepared  to  state  —  anyway  down  the  trunk  he 
came,  running  like  a  young  grouse  and  gathering 
speed  every  skip.  The  pace,  however,  was  a  bit  too 
good  to  last.  Halfway  down  he  tripped,  or  some- 
thing, and  in  an  instant  he  was  spinning  end  over 
end.  Rumpity-bump-biff-bang !  Down  he  came, 
his  last  parabolic  flight  landing  him  squarely  on  top 
of  the  small  group  of  brothers  and  sisters.  He  fell 
more  different  ways  at  one  trial  than  anything  ever 
I  saw,  yet  the  bouncing  did  not  appear  to  hurt  him 
in  the  least.  I  suspect  he  was  the  one  last  hatched, 
for  he  seemed  much  less  strong  and  nimble  than 
the  others. 

Shortly  after  his  spectacular  arrival,  the  mother 
led  the  brood  straight  across  the  exposed  strip  at  a 
smart  pace.  All  were  running  their  best  before  the 
cover  was  reached,  mother  and  young  appearing  to 
have  an  equal  dread  of  the  bare  sand.  In  a  few 
seconds  they  were  in  the  cover  next  the  water,  and 
shortly  after  in  the  water  itself.  I  could  not  see 
them  enter,  but  in  a  short  time  the  mother  sculled 
slyly  along  the  edge  of  a  mat  of  weeds.  She  swam 
deeply,  as  though  striving  to  make  herself  as  incon- 
spicuous as  possible,  and  at  her  tail  were  the  young 
all  crowded  together  like  a  small  woollen  mat  and 
occupying  no  more  room  than  might  have  been 
covered  by  an  ordinary  dinner  plate.  Under  a  tent- 
like  mass  of  wild  grape-vines  she  halted  and  I  went 
down  to  my  canoe,  for  I  was  anxious  to  see  a  bit 
more  of  them. 

Had  I  not  marked  their  hiding-place,  the  duck- 
lings never  would  have  been  disepvered.  As  it  was, 
there  was  need  for  the  sharpest  scrutiny  to  locate 


Wood-Duck  and  Wood- Duck  Shooting    213 

them  after  the  mother  had  flown.  She  did  not  go 
more  than  forty  yards  before  pitching  to  the  water, 
and  she  was  in  a  perfect  torment  of  anxiety.  The 
young  were  packed  together  under  the  vine  roots, 
but  I  managed  to  drive  them  all  out.  I  was  curious 
to  learn  if  they  could  dive,  and  so  soon  as  they  had 
been  forced  clear  of  the  cover,  all  but  one  answered 
the  question  by  promptly  going  under.  The  one 
fellow  —  for  I  knew  he  was  the  "  fat  boy  "  who  had 
flip-flapped  down  the  tree,  strove  mightily  to  go 
under,  too,  but  he  couldn't.  He  could  put  his  head 
under  and  up-end  all  right,  but  to  save  his  life  he 
couldn't  induce  his  fluffy  posterior  to  follow  the 
head.  The  wee  paddles  worked,  bravely  kicking 
drops  of  water  at  a  great  rate ;  but  either  the  coat 
was  too  dry  or  the  machinery  too  new,  for  the  best 
he  could  do  was  to  circle  about  in  an  irresistibly 
comical  manner.  Finally  I  laid  hold  of  the  fleecy 
tuft  that  served  for  his  tail  and  lifted  him  to  my 
knee.  His  beady  eyes  had  a  peculiarly  wild  gleam, 
and  his  tiny  paddles  pressed  with  astonishing  firm- 
ness against  my  leg.  Happening  to  touch  his  funny 
little  bill  with  the  tip  of  a  finger,  his  mouth  at  once 
opened  to  its  fullest  extent.  His  expression  then 
was  quite  savage,  and  an  instant  later,  to  my  amaze- 
ment, he  actually  made  an  attempt  to  bite. 

"  You're  a  brave  wee  drakie,  all  right  enough,"  I 
said  to  him  as  I  attempted  to  lift  him  preparatory 
to  turning  him  loose.  The  twin  paddles,  however, 
had  a  curiously  firm  grip,  and  the  sharp  nails  clung 
to  the  cloth.  Then  I  remembered  he  was  a  tree- 
duck,  and  better  understood  how  his  elders  could 
perch,  or  run  along  a  limb  at  will. 


214  Sporting  Sketches 

"  Guess  I'll  wet  you,  son,  so's  you  can  get  under 
next  trial,"  I  remarked  as  I  shoved  him  under.  At 
once  the  small  paddles  were  busy,  and  when  a  few 
seconds  later  the  hold  was  relaxed,  he  sped  deeper 
down.  For  fully  a  minute  there  was  no  sign  of 
him,  and  my  heart  sank,  for  there  was  a  nasty  pos- 
sibility that  his  terror  might  have  driven  him  too 
deeply  among  the  bottom  growths.  Then  I  remem- 
bered something.  A  hasty  stroke  of  the  paddle 
shot  the  canoe  ahead,  when  a  glance  astern  detected 
the  small  rascal  tossing  in  the  swirl  and  kicking  his 
prettiest  to  submerge  himself.  He  had  first  come 
up  under  the  canoe,  and  probably  had  remained 
with  only  his  head  above  water  for  some  seconds. 
He  swam  to  the  bank  in  short  order,  and  unless  he 
happened  to  be  among  those  that  tried  to  fly 
through  some  of  my  lead  the  next  autumn,  I  never 
saw  him  again. 

A  peculiar  capture  of  a  half-grown  drake  may  be 
worthy  of  reference.  My  comrade  upon  the  day  in 
question  was  then  a  strapping  young  man  —  peace 
be  to  his  ashes !  and  we  were  fishing  for  black  bass 
on  the  Thames  River,  a  stream  beloved  of  wood- 
duck.  Where  we  were  the  water  was  perhaps 
eighty  yards  broad  and  twenty  feet  deep.  The  time 
was  early  August,  and  the  day  very  sultry.  We  two 
were,  perhaps,  the  greatest  water-dogs  in  the  county. 

"  I  can  beat  you  across  for  a  dollar ! "  poor  Kit 
suddenly  exclaimed.  He  knew  he  couldn't,  and  all 
he  really  meant  was  to  have  a  swim.  In  mighty 
few  seconds  we  were  peeled  to  the  buff  (umber 
would  have  been  nearer  the  truth !)  but  before  we 
could  plunge  he  yelled,  "  See  the  wood-ducks ! " 


Wood-Duck  and,  Wood- Duck  S booting    215 

Thirty  yards  away  half-a-dozen  flappers  were  pat- 
tering across  the  stream,  and  the  way  we  hit  the 
water  was  a  caution.  We  returned  to  the  surface, 
going  at  full  speed  and  halfway  across  —  as  it 
proved  just  far  enough  to  head  off  the  last  duck. 
The  others  no  sooner  reached  the  bank  than  they 
sprinted  to  cover  like  so  many  Bob  Whites.  Be- 
cause wise  men  garbed  only  in  freckles  and  sunburn 
never  chase  through  rough  cover,  those  ducks  were 
safe ;  but  not  so  the  lone  one. 

"  Give  it  to  him  !  "  I  yelled,  and  we  foamed  in 
pursuit. 

The  unfortunate  duck  didn't  know  enough  to  go 
back  to  the  bank  it  had  left,  or  its  sole  desire  was  to 
follow  its  kin,  for  it  refused  to  turn.  Kit  dashed 
straight  for  it,  while  I  edged  nearer  the  desired 
bank.  The  duck  scuttled  ahead  a  few  yards,  then 
dived.  Instantly  I  went  under  a  few  feet,  then 
paused  and  stared  toward  the  light.  After  half  a 
minute's  wait,  I  rose  hunting  air,  and  within  a  yard 
of  the  duck.  A  wild  grab  missed  by  a  narrow  mar- 
gin, and  again  I  went  under  and  waited.  The  duck 
as  it  vanished  was  headed  from  me,  but  I  knew  their 
tricks.  Within  thirty  seconds  or  so,  as  I  stared 
toward  the  light,  a  long  black  thing  hove  in  sight, 
headed  so  as  to  pass  directly  over  my  face.  I  could 
distinctly  see  the  head,  neck,  half-spread  flapper 
wings,  and  the  kicking  feet.  It  was  not  travelling 
very  fast,  and  —  this  meant  seriously,  mind  you  !  — 
I  thrust  up  my  hand  and  grabbed  the  neck.  Before 
I  got  to  the  surface  I  learned  something  about  wood- 
ducks'  claws  —  they  can  scratch  like  fury;  but  I 
had  the  drake,  for  such  it  proved  to  be.  Kit's  first 


216  Sporting  Sketches 

remark  was,  "  Bet  you  got  him  ! "  and  when  I  held 
up  the  duck,  his  whoop  of  delight  might  have  been 
heard  a  mile  away.  The  bird  wasn't  injured  a  par- 
ticle, but  it  was  "  scared  stiff."  I  got  it  safely  home 
and  kept  it  until  the  first  of  the  winter.  It  soon 
became  as  tame  as  a  pet  chicken.  To  my  great 
sorrow  a  mink  killed  it  one  night  in  its  pen. 

The  shooting  of  the  wood-duck  is  a  sport  I 
greatly  fancy.  There  are  three  methods,  which 
may  be  termed  "jumping,"  "poling,"  and  "flight." 
About  the  time  of  the  first  light  frosts,  the  ducks 
are  much  in  the  vine-hung  trees  that  overhang  slow 
streams  and  ponds.  The  small  wild  grape  is  then 
the  attraction.  When  not  in  the  trees,  the  ducks 
have  a  habit  of  skulking  under  the  brush  of  the 
banks  and  quiet  coves.  They  also  like  to  stand 
upon  almost  submerged  snags.  When  alarmed  in 
such  places,  they  may  at  once  spring,  or  go  trotting 
like  grouse  to  the  brush. 

The  man  intent  upon  jumping  wood-duck  should 
have  a  good  canoe  and  a  light,  handy  gun  —  a  good 
quail  gun  is  the  very  thing.  I  kneel  and  have  the 
gun  resting  in  a  crutch,  so  the  heel-plate  just  comes 
between  my  knees.  So  placed,  one  can  get  it  with 
the  least  waste  of  time,  and  it  is  wiser  to  waste  no 
time  when  a  wood-duck  springs.  The  paddle  should 
be  made  fast  by  a  yard  of  stout  cord ;  it  may  then  be 
dropped  and  recovered  at  will.  The  quickest  way 
to  get  rid  of  it  is  to  drop  it  clear.  So  equipped,  one 
may  steal  up  mile  after  mile  of  stream,  keeping  a  sharp 
eye  upon  trees  and  low  cover  ahead,  and  hands  ever 
ready  to  drop  the  paddle  and  seize  the  gun  whenever 
the  tremulous  "  Oe-eek-oe-eek ! "  tells  the  glad  tidings. 


Wood- Duck  and  Wood- Duck  Shooting    217 

It  is  indeed  pretty  sport,  and  none  too  easy,  for 
only  a  smart  and  accurate  shot  can  hope  to  excel 
at  it.  The  surroundings,  too,  almost  invariably  are 
very  pretty,  for  the  winding  water  every  few  minutes 
reveals  a  new  vista  of  noble  trees  and  drooping 
vines.  Occasionally,  a  small  flock  of  ducks,  hum- 
ming downstream,  dart  around  a  bend  without  the 
slightest  warning.  Then  is  the  moment  for  the 
swift  man  who  can  let  go  with  one  hand  and  take 
hold  with  the  other,  and  shoot  without  bothering 
about  getting  the  gun  to  his  shoulder. 

The  first  flight  of  wood-ducks  from  the  streams 
usually  extends  no  farther  than  to  the  nearest  rice 
marshes.  There  they  frequent  the  lily-choked 
ponds,  especially  those  which  have  a  few  old  rat 
houses.  The  wood-duck  seems  to  love  the  top  of 
an  old  rat  house,  presumably  because  it  is  apt  to  be 
the  most  convenient  place  for  a  sun  bath.  The 
marsh  ponds  can  best  be  reached  by  pushing,  i.e. 
propelling  the  canoe  by  means  of  a  long  punting 
paddle  which  may  be  set  against  submerged  roots 
and  other  tolerably  firm  stuff. 

Next  to  jumping,  I  prefer  flight,  as  follows.  So 
soon  as  the  young  ducks  are  able  to  fly  strongly, 
they  are  apt  to  start  about  sunrise  and  go  far  up 
the  stream  to  some  special  feeding-ground,  or  it  may 
be  their  night  resort  in  some  small  pond  in  field,  or 
wood,  or  some  particular  cove  of  a  stream.  To 
these  they  return  about  sunset,  straggling  in  singly, 
by  pairs,  and  now  and  then  a  whole  brood  together. 
A  man  properly  placed  beside  the  night  resort  may 
enjoy  perhaps  half  an  hour's  shooting  of  the  live- 
liest description.  Again  there  may  be  half-a-dozen 


218  Sporting  Sketches 

ponds,  etc.,  near  together,  while  the  stream  extends 
for  miles  above.  Then  it  is  no  bad  scheme  to  take 
post  on  the  bank  of  the  stream  and,  say,  a  mile 
above  the  night  resorts.  The  ducks  usually  follow 
the  stream  until  they  are  close  to  their  chosen  spot ; 
hence  a  man  in  the  right  place  may  have  chances 
at  all  the  fowl  of  a  group  of  night  resorts.  I  well 
remember  one  old  "  hide  "  of  mine.  It  was  on  the 
very  crest  of  a  cliff-like  bank  of  a  narrow  river. 
About  a  mile  below  were  two  big  ponds  in  the 
open  fields  and  beyond  them  nearly  one  hundred 
acres  of  wet  woodland.  These  places  were  in 
high  favor,  and  toward  sunset  the  ducks  would 
come  streaming  down  from  feeding-grounds  higher 
up. 

Then  the  sport  depended  upon  how  the  fowl 
arrived.  If,  as  sometimes  happened,  they  came  in 
large  groups,  or  too  closely  following  smaller  lots,  the 
shots  at  the  first  were  apt  to  alarm  others  and  so  spoil 
the  fun.  But  frequently  they  came  straggling  along 
in  well-separated  fives,  sixes,  and  sevens,  with  an  odd 
one,  or  a  pair,  every  now  and  then.  Then  was  there 
exceeding  great  joy  in  the  hide,  swift  action,  and  the 
keenest  of  watches  upstream,  for  it  might  happen 
that  twenty  or  more  shells  would  be  used  before  the 
light  failed,  and  the  fellow  who  uses  that  many  shells 
upon  wood-ducks  and  doesn't  have  fun  and  inci- 
dentally knock  down  a  fair  percentage  of  fowl, 
should  be  deprived  of  his  yellow  jacket. 

The  last  bird  I  killed  will  not  soon  be  forgotten. 
It  was  in  October,  yet  the  weather  was  like  mid- 
summer. 

"  Too  late,  man  —  what  ye  thinkin'  about  ? "  ex- 


Wood-Duck  and  Wood- Duck  S booting    219 

claimed  my  host,  when  I  had  suggested  a  joint 
expedition  up  river. 

"  I'll  go  anyway,  this  afternoon,  just  for  a  paddle," 
I  replied,  and  I  went. 

The  stream  was  deserted,  yet  the  five-mile  trip 
was  wondrous  pleasant.  At  the  turning-point  I 
lingered  long,  merely  lounging  in  the  canoe,  for 
farmers  along  the  way  had  all  told  the  same  story  — 
"  Ducks  had  been  fairly  plentiful,  but  all  had  gone 
to  the  marsh." 

I  suppose  old  memories  had  a  deal  to  do  with  it, 
for  somehow  I  fairly  longed  to  see  even  one  of  the 
dainty  beauties  that  formerly  traded  up  and  down 
that  water.  It  was  a  perfect  Indian  summer  day, 
the  water  like  glass,  the  sky  steel-blue,  and  over  all 
the  magic  haze  which  screens  the  death  of  the  bleed- 
ing leaf.  Great  walls  of  painted  foliage  were  mir- 
rored in  the  sleeping  water,  and  as  I  looked  up  the 
old  stream  from  the  old  point  of  view,  I  thought, 
u'Tis  indeed  wondrous  fair  —  why  couldn't  just  one 
of  the  old  wood-ducks  have  held  over  for  my  benefit 
if  but  to  complete  the  picture." 

He  must  have  known  —  have  purposely  delayed 
rather  than  have  me  disappointed.  I  saw  him  first, 
and  as  there  was  no  time  for  getting  to  cover,  I 
knelt  in  the  canoe  right  in  midstream.  He  saw  me, 
but  all  he  did  was  rise  a  bit  and  "  Oe-eek  "  for  more 
steam.  When  he  was  almost  overhead,  for  an  instant 
I  caught  the  gleam  of  his  sunlit  garb,  then,  allowing 
at  least  ten  feet,  I  pulled.  He  got  it  so  fairly  that 
all  he  did  was  set  his  wings  and  hang  for  one  instant 
with  the  sun  glorifying  him,  the  misty  blue  above, 
and  the  billows  of  glowing  foliage  upon  either  hand. 


220  Sporting  Sketches 

For  some  minutes  I  almost  wished  I  had  missed. 
Then  I  paddled  after  him,  lifted  him  from  the  water 
and  laid  him  gently  upon  my  coat.  He  was  the 
prettiest  drake  ever  I  killed  in  the  fall,  and  all  I 
need  do  is  to  raise  my  eyes  to  his  glass  ones  and 
see  them  full  of  the  same  old  question  —  "  How  the 
devil  did  you  manage  to  fluke  my  undoing  ? " 


^ 


THE  sun  looms  large  above  a  sea  of  gauzy  haze 
which  piles  like  airy  surf  against  the  forest's  rim. 
It  is  a  windless,  dreamy  morning,  rich  with  the 
magic  of  the  Indian  summer,  the  glory  of  painted 
leaves,  the  incense  of  ripe  fruit.  In  the  full  fatness 
^of  autumn's  latter  days  the  world  is  songless,  silent, 
fat.  Those  things  which  sleep  —  that  drowse  the 
long,  white  silence  soon  to  be  —  are  round  well-nigh 
to  bursting.  Those  things  that  durst  not  face  the 
nip  of  steel-skied  nights  have  fled  to  kindlier  climes, 
while  those  other  things  which  neither  sleep  nor 
flee  are  revelling  in  a  rich  abundance.  They  know 
what  must  come  when  Kee-way-din  whines  about 
their  brushy  eaves  and  the  strange,  cold  white 
feathers  fall.  They  know  that  the  brushy  and  still 
leafy  cover  will  be  flattened  and  that  the  white  wolf 
of  the  North  will  plunge  and  ramp  and  howl  across 
far  leagues  of  whiteness.  They  know  the  present 
business  of  their  kind  is  to  eat  —  eat  till  craws  and 
skins  are  tight  as  drumheads,  to  wax  fat  because  fat 
things  do  not  freeze,  while  they  can,  if  need  be,  doze 


221 


222  Sporting  Sketches 

for  days  when  times  are  bad.  All  this  eating  and 
fat  content  is  lazy  business  and  sleep  lasts  long. 

Up  in  the  pleasant  room,  too,  Sleep  herself  sits 
by  a  narrow  cot  upon  which  lies  a  silent  figure.  The 
kindly  goddess  knows  that  under  her  spell  men  do 
no  wrong,  and  so,  with  light  hand  laid  across  his 
eyes,  she  sits  and  watches.  Through  open  windows 
streams  a  scented  air,  fruity  from  near-by  orchards 
and  spiced  with  the  breath  of  drying  foliage. 

Thump !  A  big  apple  parts  its  failing  stem  and 
strikes  a  hollow  roof.  The  figure  stirs  and  Sleep 
flies  on  soundless  feet.  Gradually  the  man  gets 
himself  dressed,  and  then  he  looks  the  workman. 
The  loose  cord  breeches  closely  match  the  broad- 
soled,  flat-heeled  knee-boots ;  the  sweater  has  the 
shade  of  the  dried  grass,  and  the  old  canvas  coat 
admirably  matches  it.  'Tis  a  marvel,  that  coat  —  a 
thing  of  beauty  and  a  joy  forever  to  its  owner — • 
a  horror  unspeakable  to  his  female  kin.  One  had 
described  it  as  "  A  snarl  of  pockets  held  together 
by  some  remnants  of  filthy  canvas,"  and  the  owner 
had  merely  smiled.  To  him  every  stain  upon  it  was 
a  precious  thing,  a  sign-board  pointing  to  a  dear- 
prized  memory,  and  he  wouldn't  trade  it  for  the 
mantle  of  Elijah.  Once,  a  fair  young  thing,  a  fre- 
quent guest,  who  was  clever  at  giving  the  last  touch 
to  ties  and  an  invaluable  adviser  in  regard  to  mani- 
cure sets,  had  declared  she'd  "wash  that  horrid 
jacket!"  and  thus  a  dimmering  possibility  of  a  — 
a  —  oh!  bother  —  it  didn't  come  off,  anyhow! 

But  the  little  woman  who  met  him  this  morning 
was  not  of  that  sort.  Once,  long  before,  he  had  ex- 
plained to  her  the  difference  between  shooting  for 


A  Red-letter  Day  223 

count  and  shooting  as  a  sportsman  should,  and  why 
there  was  no  advantage  in  getting  upon  Bob  White 
ground  too  early.  She  knew  that  fifteen  birds  was 
his  limit  so  far  as  that  particular  game  was  concerned, 
and  she  also  knew  that  the  fifteen  and  perhaps  some 
other  game  would  load  that  coat  at  night,  if  all  went 
well.  So  when  he  had  nearly  finished  breakfast,  she 
slipped  away,  to  presently  return  amid  a  tumult  of 
scratching  claws  and  gusty  breathing. 

"  Here — he  —  is  —  and  —  I  —  gave —  him  —  just 
—  three  —  bits  !  "  she  panted,  as  the  strong  brute 
strained  at  the  chain  in  his  eagerness. 

"  Down  —  you !  "  muttered  the  man,  and  as  the 
quivering  form  sank  promptly,  he  continued  — 
"  Mater  mine,  thou  fibbest  —  he  don't  lick  his  chops 
that  way  after  straight  bread." 

"  Merely  an  atom  of  gravy,  dear  —  just  a  drop  was 
kept,  and  the  bread  is  so  dry  and  he  chews  at  it  so." 

"  Grease  —  faugh  !  will  you  never  learn  ?  "  he 
growls,  but  his  eyes  are  twinkling  and  he  has  to 
avert  his  face  to  keep  from  laughing  outright,  for 
this  question  of  dog-fare  is  a  rock  upon  which  they 
regularly  split.  Right  well  he  knows  that  Don 
has  had  his  bread,  a  trifle  of  meat,  and  perhaps 
about  a  pint  of  soupy  stuff  to  boot ;  but  he  wisely 
makes  no  further  comment,  for  the  mistake  was 
lovingly  made. 

And  so  they  fare  forth,  a  varmint-looking  team, 
both  lean  and  hard,  the  long,  easy  stride  of  the  man 
hinting  of  many  days  afoot,  the  corky  action  of  the 
dog  proving  him  sound  and  keen.  'Tis  true  his 
ribs  show  as  though  his  hide  covered  a  spiral 
spring,  but  his  white  coat  has  a  satiny  lustre,  and  he 


224  Sporting  Sketches 

puts  his  feet  down  as  though  such  things  as  thorns 
and  burrs  had  never  been.  Behind  them  stands  the 
little  figure  watching  with  moist  eyes,  for  one  is 
hers  and  the  other  belongs  to  one  of  hers.  Though 
they  went  and  returned  one  thousand  times  in 
safety,  —  still  —  still  —  it  might  —  be.  Wonderful 
are  thy  ways,  O  woman  ! 

At  the  corner  the  tall  figure  halts  and  right-about- 
faces  with  military  precision,  the  gun  is  whipped 
through  the  salute,  and  at  the  instant  the  white  dog 
rises  erect  upon  his  hind  feet.  Both  man  and  dog 
know  that  all  these  things  must  be  done  before 
rounding  the  turn,  else  the  day  would  not  be  all  it 
should.  A  kerchief  flutters  in  the  distance,  then 
they  pass  in  a  few  strides  from  town  to  country. 

Before  them  spreads  a  huge  pasture,  beyond  that 
a  grove  of  mighty  trees,  and  beyond  that  the  shoot- 
ing grounds  —  farm  after  farm,  with  here  a  bit  of 
woods  and  there  a  thicket.  For  miles  the  country 
is  the  same,  and  through  it  all,  in  a  bee-line,  extends 
the  double  track  of  an  important  railway.  Along 
either  side  of  this  runs  a  broad  ditch,  now  bone-dry 
and  bordered  with  low  cat-briers.  These  and  the 
ripe  weeds  standing  thickly  in  the  angles  of  the  rail- 
fences  form  rare  good  cover  for  scattered  birds. 

"  Well,  Mister,"  says  the  man  to  the  dog,  "  guess 
you'd  best  have  a  pipe-opener  right  here."  He 
waves  his  hand  and  clucks  softly,  and  the  dog  sails 
away  over  the  short  fall  grass.  A  judge  of  dogs 
would  watch  this  pointer  with  solid  satisfaction. 
So  smooth  is  his  action  and  so  systematic  is  his 
method  of  covering  ground,  that  his  tremendous 
speed  is  not  at  first  apparent.  But  for  all  that  he  is 


A  Red- Letter  Day  225 

a  flier  which  few  dogs  can  stay  with,  and  best  of  all 
he  can  keep  going  for  a  week  if  need  be. 

Of  course,  he  naturally  was  a  fine  animal,  blessed 
with  courage  and  brains  a  plenty,  but  his  owner's 
method — "  keep  sending  "em,"  as  he  termed  it — has 
done  much  to  develop  the  speed.  Needless  to  say, 
at  the  forward  end  of  that  dog  is  a  nose  —  for  woe 
unto  the  animal  that  would  attempt  such  a  clip 
without  the  very  finest  thing  in  the  way  of  a  smeller. 

Half  an  hour  later  the  man  halts  on  top  of  a  fence 
while  the  dog  takes  a  roll.  They  are  now  on  the 
edge  of  the  good  ground,  and  both  feel  just  right 
after  their  preliminary  canter.  The  man  fills  his 
pipe,  gets  it  nicely  going,  then  looks  at  the  gun 
across  his  knees.  It  appears  almost  like  a  toy  ;  but 
its  small  tubes  are  of  the  best  and  can  throw  lead 
with  amazing  power.  Almost  plain,  but  perfect  of 
its  pattern,  that  gun  cost  about  three  times  what  an 
unsophisticated  person  might  guess  as  its  price,  and, 
as  its  owner  declared,  it  was  well  worth  the  money. 

"  Now,  Mister,"  says  the  man,  after  a  bit,  "  there's 
rag-weed,  standing  corn,  and  thicket  —  which  would 
you  advise  ? "  The  dog  sits  up  and  stares  with  lov- 
ing intentness,  and  the  man  continues  —  "  When 
a  lemon-headed  fool-dog  looks  at  me  after  that  man- 
ner he  certainly  means  standing  corn,  so  here  goes." 
At  the  words  he  lets  himself  down,  while  the  dog 
darts  away.  Soon  he  is  into  his  regular  stride  and 
beating  the  ground  with  beautiful  precision.  The 
man  watches  and  nods  his  head  as  he  mutters, 
"  That  rat-tailed  rascal's  going  great  guns  to-day,  he'll 
have  'em  befo  —  "  In  the  middle  of  a  stride  the  dog 
has  halted  as  though  smitten  by  lightning.  Some 


226  Sporting  Sketches 

message  of  the  air  has  reached  that  marvellous  nose, 
and  the  grand  brute  stands  as  though  carved  in 
marble.  There  was  no  reading,  no  feeling  for  it, 
just  an  instantaneous  propping  and  a  breathless 
halt.  "  That's  funny,"  mutters  the  man ;  "  I'd  have 
sworn — ha  !  "  There  is  an  abrupt  rising  of  a  brown, 
hasty-winged  thing  which  goes  darting  for  a  dis- 
tant cover.  At  the  sight  the  lazy  man  suddenly 
changes.  The  little  gun  leaps  to  the  level,  and 
before  the  butt  has  fairly  touched  the  shoulder,  the 
quick  smokeless  has  hurled  its  leaden  greeting. 
The  bird  goes  down,  unmistakably  clean  killed, 
while  the  dog  slowly  sinks  to  his  haunches.  As 
the  man  reloads,  his  face  fairly  shines  with  joy. 
"  Fifty  yards  if  an  inch,"  he  says  to  himself,  "  and 
a  bruising  old  hen  at  that.  Who'd  have  expected 
a  woodcock  this  time  of  year  and  away  out  here  ? " 
Then  he  goes  to  the  dog  and  clucks  him  on. 

As  the  dog  has  seen  the  bird  fall,  he  merely 
makes  a  few  bounds  forward  and  again  stiffens 
within  two  yards  of  an  unusually  large  female 
woodcock  —  one  of  those  choice  birds  only  occa- 
sionally picked  up  at  the  tail-end  of  the  season. 
"  Don't  like  that,  eh  ? "  laughs  the  man  as  he 
holds  the  bird  near  the  dog's  nose.  The  grand 
eyes  are  bulging  with  controlled  excitement,  but 
the  shapely  muzzle  is  wrinkled  into  an  expression 
highly  suggestive  of  disgust.  "  Wish  I  understood 
that.  It's  funny,  but  you  don't  like  a  dead  cock 
though  you'll  stop  on  'em  fast  enough  when  alive 
—  eh,  old  boy?"  chuckles  the  man.  "Here,  take 
it,"  he  says,  and  the  dog  obeys.  . "  Give  it  to  me," 
continues  the  man,  and  the  dog  promptly  drops 


A  Red- Letter  Day  227 

the  bird  into  the  hand,  then  wrinkles  his  chops 
as  though  an  unpleasant  flavor  remained.  It's  a 
grand  bird,  old  and  fat,  and  the  druggist's  scales 
later  prove  it  to  weigh  full  eight  ounces,  an 
extreme  weight  for  even  a  female,  which  is  larger 
than  the  male. 

When  again  started,  the  dog  sweeps  away  to  a 
low-lying  bit  where  the  withered  corn  is  taller  and 
thicker.  Here  he  circles  rapidly,  stops  for  a 
moment,  then  stands  looking  at  his  master.  The 
man  moves  over  to  him,  and  closely  examining  the 
ground  presently  detects  half-a-dozen  small  hollows 
and  a  tiny  brown  feather.  "  Flushed,  eh  ?  "  he  says 
to  the  dog,  and  evidently  the  latter  agrees.  Now 
the  man's  own  tracks  show  plainly,  there  are  no 
other  bootmarks,  nor  has  he  seen  an  empty  shell 
anywhere ;  so  he  knows  the  flush  has  been  owing 
to  natural  cause.  "  Mebbe  hawk,"  he  says  to 
himself.  "  If  so,  where  ? "  His  eyes  rove  over  all 
the  surrounding  cover  and  settle  upon  a  clump  of 
thicket  in  a  corner.  It  is  about  far  enough  and 
certainly  looks  promising.  Away  goes  the  dog 
as  though  he  could  read  the  other's  thoughts.  As 
he  nears  the  edge  of  the  cover  his  style  changes. 
The  smooth  gallop  slows  to  a  steady  trot  which 
presently  alters  to  a  majestic  march.  Higher  and 
higher  rises  the  square  muzzle  and  up  and  up 
goes  the  tapering  stern,  while  he  steps  ahead  as 
though  treading  on  tacks.  Two  yards  from  the 
cover  he  halts  with  lifted  foot  in  the  perfection  of 
the  old-fashioned  stylish  point.  "  You  beauty !  " 
says  the  man,  his  eyes  flashing  with  delight.  Then 
he  goes  to  the  wonderful  white  form  which,  hard 


228  Sporting  Sketches 

from  set  muscles,  yet  quivers  with  the  tenseness 
of  sudden  excitement.  The  man,  too,  feels  the 
magic  of  the  situation.  His  eyes  gleam  and  his 
teeth  grip  the  pipe-stem  as  if  they  would  shear  it 
off.  His  heart  thrills  with  rapturous  anticipation 
and  his  strong  hands  grip  the  gun  ready  for  instant 
action.  Right  well  he  knows  that  the  pointer  never 
draws  like  that  or  raises  head  and  stern  so  high 
except  for  serious  business.  A  dead  leaf  falls 
ticking  through  the  tangling  twigs,  and  at  the 
first  move  of  it  the  dog  gives  a  convulsive  twitch, 
while  the  gun  flashes  to  the  level  and  down  again. 
A  smile  flickers  in  the  keen  eyes  as  the  man  moves 
a  step  nearer.  No  matter  which  way  the  game  may 
go,  he  is  bound  to  have  a  fair  chance  and  he  knows 
it.  The  cover  is  none  too  thick  for  even  a  straight- 
away drive,  while  all  other  directions  mean  the  broad 
open.  He  clucks  softly  to  the  dog,  but  there  is  no 
responsive  move  —  clearly  this  is  a  serious  case. 
Could  it  possibly  be  a  —  ?  Ah!  the  roar  of  him, 
as  he  tore  like  a  feathered  shell  through  the  dens- 
est growth !  Oh !  the  beauty  of  him,  as  he  curved 
into  the  mellow  sunshine,  his  dainty  crest  and 
plumes  flattened  with  speed.  And,  ho !  the  smash- 
ing thump  of  him  as  he  hit  the  ground  some  thirty 
yards  away.  'Twas  a  brave  dash,  Sir  Ruffs,  but 
risky  withal,  to  dare  that  sunny  open  in  defiance 
of  trained  eyes  and  nervously  quick  hands.  Was 
it  yonder  mat  of  new  clover-tips,  or  the  red  fruit 
of  the  brier-rose,  which  coaxed  you  here  a  fourth 
of  a  mile  from  your  woodland  stronghold? 

But  the  dog  is  eager  to  be  off.    .The  languid  air, 
scarce  drifting  in  its  lazy  mood,  is  tattling  something. 


A  Red- Letter  Day  229 

There  is  some  unfinished  business,  which  the  strong 
scent  of  the  expected  grouse  had  interrupted.  Now, 
as  the  dog  slants  away,  the  square  muzzle  rises  higher, 
and  the  eager  stern  whips  frantically.  Shorter  and 
shorter  grow  the  tacks,  until  the  advance  steadies 
to  a  straight  line.  Soon  the  gallop  slows  to  a 
canter,  a  trot,  a  stately  walk.  With  head  and  stern 
held  high,  on  he  marches  until  fifty  yards  have  been 
covered.  Then  he  suddenly  stiffens,  while  the  quiv- 
ering nostrils  search  the  air  for  positive  proof.  His 
erstwhile  gusty  breathing  is  muffled  now,  his  jaws 
slowly  open  and  close,  while  the  marvellous  nose 
seems  to  be  feeling  —  feeling  for  a  something  rarely 
pleasant.  Then  on  again,  slower  and  slower,  till  he 
seems  to  fairly  drift  to  his  anchorage.  Then  his 
hind-quarters  sink  till  he  is  almost  on  his  hams. 

Has  he  got  them  ?  Man,  if  you'd  ever  followed 
that  dog,  you'd  know  he  had  'em.  When  you  see 
that  long  draw  and  the  squatting  finish,  bet  your 
gun,  or  your  wife,  or  whatever  you  prize  most,  that 
it's  a  bevy  and  a  big  one.  Scattered  birds  he  will 
pin  in  all  sorts  of  fancy  attitudes  as  he  happens 
upon  them,  but  when  he  gets  right  down  to  it,  that 
signifies  a  wholesale  order.  The  man  moves  up 
within  a  foot  of  the  stiffened  stern.  For  a  moment 
the  tenseness  is  dramatic  —  then  —  whur-r-r !  Some- 
thing like  a  mighty  shell  loaded  with  feathered  base- 
balls appears  to  explode  in  a  patch  of  dried  grasses, 
and  the  air  is  filled  with  humming  missiles.  Even 
in  the  roar  and  electric  rush  the  trained  eyes  mark 
slight  differences  in  coloration,  and  the  trim  tubes 
swing  from  one  bird  to  a  second  with  a  smooth 
rapidity  which  betokens  years  of  practice.  Two 


230  Sporting  Sketches 

birds  fall  a  few  yards  apart,  and  as  they  turn  over 
in  the  air,  the  man  notes  the  flash  of  white  and 
knows  his  lightning  choice  has  been  correct.  As 
he  moves  toward  them,  there  is  a  sudden  hollow 
roar,  and  a  lone  bird  rises  from  his  very  foot  and 
goes  whizzing  toward  cover.  The  gun  leaps  to 
shoulder  before  he  can  check  it,  but  it  is  promptly 
lowered.  "  Go  on,  you  old  seed-hen  and  do  your 
best  next  year,"  he  chuckles,  as  the  brown  matron 
strives  to  set  herself  afire  by  atmospheric  friction. 
Her  course  is  wide  of  that  taken  by  the  brood,  but 
he  knows  she'll  call  the  stragglers  to  her  ere  the 
shadows  fall. 

And  they  will  be  stragglers.  Of  the  twenty 
strong  beauties  that  roared  up  ahead  of  that  first 
point,  her  sweet,  insistent  "  Ca-loi-ee  !  ca-loi-ee !  " 
will  muster  but  four  when  fence  and  thicket  blur 
together  in  the  scented  dusk.  Instead  of  doing  as 
she  had  told  them  time  and  time  again  —  instead  of 
plunging  headlong  into  the  convenient  woods,  her 
headstrong  family  has  whirred  across  the  open  and 
dropped  here  and  there  in  the  well-known  resort, 
the  railroad  ditch.  Hither  they  have  come  day 
after  day  until  the  awful,  clattering  trains  have 
lost  all  terrors.  In  the  broad  ditch  are  pleasant 
runways  and  much  useful  gravel  of  assorted  sizes, 
also  cosey,  sunny  spots,  the  perfection  of  dust  baths. 
Here,  too,  are  many  unaccountable  stores  of  grain, 
choicest  of  corn  and  wheat,  which  seem  in  some 
miraculous  manner  to  appear  there  all  ready  for 
eating.  What  better  place  could  there  be? 

The  man  looks  at  the  dog  and  grins  with  unholy 
joy.  The  dog  looks  at  the  man  and  seems  to  un- 


A  Red- Letter  Day  231 

derstand.  Oh  !  they  are  a  precious  pair  of  rascals, 
are  these  two. 

"  You  old  Judas,"  says  the  man,  "  we'll  do  things 
to  'em  now.  It  looks  like  fifteen  straight  —  eh?  " 

And  the  dog  cuts  a  couple  of  fool-capers,  which 
is  his  method  of  evincing  a  devilish  approval.  Then 
the  pair  of  'em  move  on  after  the  misguided  birds. 

Whur !  Bing !  Whur !  Bing !  It  is  almost  too 
easy.  Shooting  in  that  ditch  where  cover  is  barely 
knee-high  with  a  high  embankment  on  one  side  and 
a  stiff  fence  on  the  other,  is  something  like  shooting 
into  an  enormous  funnel  —  the  shot  has  to  go  right. 
The  dog  does  little  more  than  trot  from  point  to 
point.  Bird  after  bird  rises  and  is  cut  down  with 
painless  exactitude.  Presently  two  start  together, 
only  to  be  dropped  by  a  quick  double-hail.  Then 
one  curves  over  the  fence,  but  a  rising  mist  of 
downy  feathers  tells  that  he  got  it  just  in  time. 
Then  another  pair,  and  as  the  second  barrel  sounds, 
a  third  rises.  The  cases  leap  from  the  gun,  a  hand 
flashes  to  and  from  a  pocket  —  Burr ! 

"  Here's  where  we  quit  —  that  makes  fifteen,"  says 
the  man,  as  the  last  bird  is  gathered.  He  sits  down 
on  a  convenient  knoll,  pushes  his  hat  back,  and 
grins  at  the  dog.  That  worthy,  after  a  hesitating 
forward  movement,  which  would  indicate  his  belief 
that  "  There's  more,"  also  sits  down  and  stares  ex- 
pectantly at  the  grimy  coat.  "  Yes,  I'll  give  you 
half.  You've  done  mighty  well,  and  for  once  it's 
fifteen  straight,"  chuckles  the  man  as  he  produces 
the  sandwiches.  The  dog  gets  a  bit  more  than  half, 
for  this  is  a  red-letter  day.  Then  the  pipe  comes 
out,  and  for  half  an  hour  the  pair  of  'em  lounge  in 


232  Sporting  Sketches 

perfect  peace.  Little  do  they  know  or  care  about 
trouble.  Twin  tramps  are  they,  heedless  of  the  bur- 
dens of  life,  careless  of  its  future.  Sufficient  for 
them  that  the  afternoon  sun  is  warm,  the  grass 
thick  and  dry.  Naught  care  they  for  the  five-mile 
homeward  trudge,  for  neither  is  more  than  comfort- 
ably tired,  and  when  they  rise  refreshed  they  will 
stride  away  as  though  they  had  just  begun. 

And  the  little  woman  will  have  two  glorious  meals 
all  ready,  for  she  knows  what  each  can  do  in  that 
line  when  thoroughly  in  earnest.  And  she  will  be  al- 
most sinfully  happy,  for  the  first  glance  will  tell  that 
things  have  gone  well  for  at  least  one  November 
day. 


To  the  hotel  in  Winnipeg  came  Thompson  and 
Monroe,  and  within  half  an  hour  they  had  me 
stuffed  so  full  of  sporting  possibilities  that  I  scarce 
could  get  on  my  sweater.  To  avoid  useless  details, 
I'll  merely  say  that  within  twelve  hours  we  had 
reached  an  insignificant  station  from  which  we  were 
to  drive  to  the  rough  shooting-lodge  which  stands 
alone  beside  the  big  bay  which  marks  the  southern 
end  of  Lake  Manitoba. 

"  Here  we  are !  Change  cars  for  Clandeboy,  Teal- 
town,  Bluehillburg,  Redheadhurst,  and  all  web- 
footed  points !  Passengers  going  east  will  walk,  I 
reckon ! "  shouted  Thompson.  So  far  as  I  could 
see,  the  alleged  station  consisted  mainly  of  primeval 
peace,  poplar,  and  future  possibilities ;  but  there  were 
small  railway  buildings,  also  a  modest  combination 
of  general  store  and  hotel,  which  presently  proved 
no  bad  place. 

"  Looks  a  bit  rough,  but  it's  all  right,  eh  ? " 
chuckled  Thompson.  "  Can't  imagine  what's  gone 
wrong  with  Batteese  —  never  knew  him  to  be  late. 
I'll  have  to  —  no,  I  won't  either,  for  yonder  he 
comes ! "  he  concluded,  and  we  saw  far  away  a  team 
emerging  from  the  brush.  Then  a  second  team 

233 


234  Sporting  Sketches 

appeared,  and  the  two  jogged  forward  at  the  tireless 
all-day  gait  of  the  northern  ponies. 

"  Now  we'll  get  a  square  meal,  give  the  nags  a 
rest  and  feed,  then  hit  the  trail.  It's  a  longish  drive, 
but  we  have  a  glorious  day,  and  there'll  be  a  bit  of 
fun  along  the  trail,  and  a  chance  to  try  out  our 
tenderfoot,  or  my  name  isn't  Thompson.  All  hands 
to  the  grub-trough !  "  he  ordered,  as  he  led  the  way 
to  what  proved  a  first-rate  meal.  After  that  we 
smoked,  and  I  took  a  look  at  the  surroundings. 
These  presented  a  picture  of  wildness.  In  all  direc- 
tions spread  the  same  patchwork  of  brown  grass  and 
slim,  close-crowded  poplars,  their  dwarfed  trunks 
showing  silver-white  like  the  beautiful  birches  of 
farther  south.  To  the  four  points  of  the  compass 
ran  trails  as  black  as  ink.  They  looked  not  unlike 
cracks  in  a  brown  crust,  and  their  well-worn  condi- 
tion hinted  of  the  Breed  villages,  white  settlements, 
and  large  farms  which  lay  in  three  directions  behind 
the  shadowy  walls  of  poplar.  In  the  fourth,  our  route, 
was  big  Lake  Manitoba  and  its  famous  bay. 

These  form  a  paradise  for  the  wild  fowler.  Amid 
long  leagues  of  silence,  where  the  brown  grass 
spreads  like  fur  over  billowy  undulations,  sleeps  the 
great  lake.  Now  and  then  a  summer  squall  hisses 
across  the  broad  open,  and  sends  the  white  suds 
growling  up  easy  slopes  of  sand,  the  chosen  prome- 
nade of  countless  shore-birds ;  but,  as  a  rule,  the  shin- 
ing water  sleeps  as  though  awaiting  the  advent  of 
some  magician  who  might  command  something  like 
sustained  activity.  Where  the  lake's  southerly  rim 
is  broken  to  loop  the  noble  ba,y,  all  semblance  of 
sandy  beach  is  lost.  Instead,  the  characteristic 


Picked  from  the  Prairie  Province        235 

short,  bronzy  plains-grass  creeps  to  the  edge  of 
moist,  boggy  soil,  and  there  the  growth  changes.  A 
few  yards  beyond  the  firm  ground  begins  a  region 
of  reeds  which  spreads  for  many  miles.  In  most 
places  the  line  between  grass  and  reeds  is  sharply 
defined  by  a  margin  of  the  blackest  of  yielding  ooze, 
beloved  of  the  Wilson  snipe  and  his  nearest  kin. 
The  reeds  are  a  marvel  of  rank  luxuriance.  A  tall 
man  standing  in  a  canoe  occasionally  can  peer  across 
leagues  of  lonesomeness,  the  brown  monotony  only 
broken  by  the  winding  streaks  of  channels  and  the 
flash  of  half-revealed  ponds.  A  tenderfoot  probably 
would  exclaim,  "  Get  me  out  of  this  grass  cemetery, 
for  surely  here  nature  has  died." 

During  a  ten  minutes'  scrutiny  he  might  see  no 
sign  of  life,  yet  his  idea  of  that  damp  desolation 
would  be  farther  from  the  truth  than  if  he  had 
purposely  striven  to  guess  wrong,  and  not  only 
wrong,  but  as  far  wrong  as  his  most  strenuous 
effort  at  imagination  possibly  could  carry  him. 
Silent  as  is  the  scene,  lifeless  as  leagues  of  it  ap- 
pear, the  quivering  reeds  screen  thousands  upon 
thousands  of  wild,  free  things,  as  yet  almost  igno- 
rant of  human  methods  and  which  spend  lazy,  dreamy 
weeks  in  fat  content.  The  only  magicians  who  can 
rouse  these  few  folk  are  two :  the  one,  a  lath-lean, 
umber-visaged,  shock-haired  Breed;  the  other,  one 
of  those  canvas-covered  whites  who  seem  to  be  ever- 
lastingly driven  into  the  drowsy  corners  of  creation. 

The  "  silent,  smoky  savage  "  of  a  Breed  seldom 
incites  to  riot.  He  hunts  of  necessity,  and  until 
he  has  had  much  to  do  with  the  white  brother, 
seldom  sees  the  sporting  side.  To  him,  cartridges 


Sporting  Sketches 

are  costly,  and  punting  through  reeds  laborious ; 
so  when  he  does  face  the  marsh,  his  chief  idea  is 
to  get  all  the  fowl  he  needs  with  the  fewest  shots 
and  the  least  possible  labor.  Ignorant  of  town  and 
town  ways,  he  has  mastered  every  mystery  of  the 
marsh  for  miles  around ;  so  when  he  silently 
launches  his  canoe  and  as  silently  steals  along  a 
channel  to  the  reeds  walling  some  pond,  it  is  safe 
to  wager  that  the  pond  is  of  easy  access  and  more 
or  less  covered  with  drowsy  ducks.  In  the  art  of 
the  paddle,  the  Breed  is  only  rivalled  by  those  few 
white  men  who  have  devoted  years  to  the  study  of 
the  silent  craft,  while  none  has  learned  to  excel  him 
in  that  hazardous  enterprise  —  the  slow,  soundless 
forcing  of  a  canoe  through  dense  cover  within  a 
few  yards  of  the  sensitive  ears  of  a  host  of  water- 
fowl. 

There  is,  perhaps,  no  more  difficult  task  in  all 
gun-craft,  yet  the  Breed  can  do  it  —  remarkably 
well  when  punting  a  white  man,  perfectly  when 
alone  in  his  canoe.  He  never  is  in  a  hurry,  and  he 
drifts  inch  by  inch  like  the  shadow  of  a  lazy  cloud, 
till  through  the  thinning  reeds  his  wild  eyes  can 
distinguish  the  rafts  of  unconscious  fowl.  Those 
wonderful  aboriginal  eyes  are  swift  as  a  modern 
camera.  One  flash  of  them  takes  in  everything, 
especially  the  closest  packed  mass  of  the  biggest 
and  best  ducks,  for  there  frequently  are  several 
species  floating  in  close  proximity.  Noiselessly  as 
a  lynx  he  discards  the  paddle  and  raises  the  cheap 
breech-loader.  The  muzzle  steadies  upon  a  bristle 
of  unsuspecting  heads,  and  the  lead  tears  a  long 
furrow  halfway  through  the  raft,  as  the  gun  is 


Picked  from  tbe  Prairie  Province        237 

swiftly  shifted  for  the  second  barrel.  Then  the 
canoe  suddenly  springs  forward,  for  there  are 
stunned  and  crippled  ducks  which  may  presently 
revive,  and  a  clout  from  a  paddle  is  much  cheaper 
while  quite  as  effective  as  another  shot.  If  a  goodly 
bunch  of  fowl  be  secured,  the  Breed  may  or  may  not 
repeat  his  deadly  work  a  bit  farther  on  after  things 
have  quieted  down.  He  may  paddle  lazily  homeward, 
but  it  is  very  pleasant  in  the  canoe,  and  to  hurry 
is  a  sin.  The  sun  will  not  sink  to  the  sky-rim  for 
long  hours  yet,  there  is  a  rough  lunch  aboard,  also 
pipe  and  tobacco,  and  the  man  who  goes  home 
too  soon  may  find  trouble  in  wading  a  trifle  of 
poplar  chopping,  which  is  not  for  one  moment  to 
be  compared  with  sun-basking  in  a  grass-padded 
canoe  as  comfortable  as  a  hammock.  Besides,  the 
swart-skinned  wife  really  is  putting  on  a  shocking 
amount  of  flesh  of  late,  and  there  is  nothing  better 
than  some  soulful  swinging  of  an  axe  to  reduce  the 
female  form  divine.  If  the  breeze  be  right,  he  may 
hear  a  whisper  of  remote  chopping,  and  smile  and 
snuggle  down ;  for  next  to  the  roar  of  a  gun  and 
the  wail  of  a  fiddle,  he  most  loves  to  hear  the  sound 
of  sufficiently  far-away  honest  labor.  And  this  is  the 
daily  story  of  the  Indian  summer  while  the  hosts  of 
fowl,  bred  yet  farther  north,  rest  and  fatten  in  the 
bounteous  bay,  while  awaiting  nature's  final  order 
for  that  marvellous  flight  to  the  lazy  locked  lagoons 
of  a  clime  that  knows  not  frost. 

But  occasionally  there  is  another  story.  Near  the 
rim  of  the  bay  stands  the  tiny  log-shanty,  its  one  wee 
window  peering  across  desolation.  On  its  outer 
wall  are  long  rows  of  stout  nails  which  no  Breed 


238  Sporting  Sketches 

would  so  sinfully  waste,  while  within  are  upper  and 
lower  berths  for  four,  and  a  low  cot  excellent  for  a 
man  of  all  work.  Heavy  paper  is  tacked  over  the 
inside  walls,  there  are  nails  to  support  all  sorts  of 
gear,  and  there  are  also  a  table,  some  benches,  and 
a  fine  cook-stove  and  outfit.  All  this  clearly  is 
White  Man's  medicine,  and  burly  indeed  have  been 
the  patients  of  that  prairie  pharmacy.  Upon  the 
wall-paper  are  the  pencilled  scores  of  many  a  glori- 
ous day,  and  the  tenderfoot  surely  would  be  puzzled 
by  the  names  affixed  thereto.  The  names,  however, 
are  no  jokes;  for  Royalty,  Statecraft,  Bar,  Pulpit, 
Art,  and  Science  have  all  snored  in  those  humble 
bunks,  and  pricked  pleased  ears  at  the  hiss  of  the 
shaved  bacon  when  the  pink  forefinger  of  Dawn 
plucked  at  the  mist-curtain  eastward. 

Three  old  campaigners  made  short  work  of  stow- 
ing the  outfit  in  the  wagons.  Thompson,  having 
been  purchasing  agent,  attended  to  the  checking 
off  of  various  bags  and  boxes,  leaving  only  hand- 
bags, guns,  and  raincoats  for  our  attention.  The 
Breed  wagons  were  a  three-seated  spring  rig  and 
one  of  the  ordinary  farm  type,  and  into  the  first 
went  guns,  shells,  and  a  box  of  lunch.  Then  the 
other  was  carefully  loaded  and  Thompson  sung 
out :  "  All  aboard,  Batteese !  But  first  shake  hands 
with  Mr.  S — .  This  is  your  punter,  Ed,  and  a  rare 
good  un  he  is.  The  other  chap's  only  a  driver." 
Batteese  solemnly  shook  my  hand,  but  there  was  a 
twinkle  in  the  wild  eye  which  hinted  that  the  ob- 
servant rascal  already  had  seen  enough  to  reconcile 
him  to  the  task  of  looking  afteF.the  green  one.  As 
a  rule,  the  punters  are  a  bit  jealous,  each  keen  to 


Picked  from  the  Prairie  Province        239 

ally  himself  with  the  best  shot  in  a  party,  but  a  pri- 
vate hint  from  Thompson  had  not  been  lost  upon  the 
wily  Batteese,  who  was  well  aware  that  his  brother 
Alfred  was  Thompson's  favorite,  as  an  older  man, 
an  uncle,  was  Monroe's. 

It  was  a  great  drive.  Once  fairly  upon  the  trail, 
we  rolled  along  almost  as  smoothly  and  silently 
as  a  billiard-ball.  The  entire  region  was  one  vast, 
level  plain,  seemingly  an  endless  reach  of  alternate 
wild  meadow  and  scrub,  the  only  proof  of  progress 
being  the  approaching  and  passing  of  exactly  alike 
areas  of  poplar.  Thompson  and  Monroe  literally 
burdened  the  seat  behind  the  driver,  while  I  had 
the  rear  seat  to  myself.  This  arrangement  was,  as 
Monroe  claimed,  "  To  let  the  wee  chap  have  plenty 
of  room  for  getting  down  and  up  before  and  after 
such  chances  as  offered  by  the  way."  This  also 
was  very  sarcastic,  because  I,  the  lightest  and  short- 
est of  the  trio,  was  sawed  off  at  six  feet  one,  and 
weigh  about  two  hundred  and  'steen  pounds.  The 
first  ten  miles  were  enlivened  by  an  unbroken  suc- 
cession of  yarns  of  the  fur-trade,  encounters  with 
various  animals,  and  not  seldom  of  lively  experiences 
along  that  very  trail.  But  with  all  the  nonsense  and 
yarns,  all  hands  kept  a  sharp  lookout  either  side 
the  way.  Because  Batteese  knew  his  ponies  as 
they  knew  the  trail,  there  was  nothing  of  actual 
driving,  which  left  the  swarthy  one  free  to  observe 
things  on  his  own  account.  The  superiority  of  the 
wild  eye  was  demonstrated  when  brown  hands  sud- 
denly hauled  upon  the  reins  and  a  voice  like  a  low 
growl  said,  "  Chicken  dur,"  —  the  shock  head  at  the 
same  time  nodding  toward  a  clump  of  low  brush 


240  Sporting  Sketches 

some  fifty  yards  away.  "  By  George !  he's  right ; 
out  you  go,  little  un.  Walk  straight  for  him  and 
be  ready,  for  he'll  flush  before  you're  halfway 
there,"  directed  Monroe,  and  away  I  went.  "  Bet 
you  a  dozen  cigars  he  misses,"  muttered  Thompson, 
and  "  Done  ! "  said  Monroe. 

A  slight  movement  in  the  brush  had  told  me 
exactly  where  to  look,  and  I  worried  not  at  all. 
Three  pairs  of  eyes  were  watching  every  movement, 
and  above  all  I  desired  to  favorably  impress  those 
microscopic  black  ones.  A  big  sharp-tail  rose  at 
about  twenty  yards  and  went  buzzing  to  the  right, 
and  I  cut  the  head  off  it.  "  Ah  !  "  said  Monroe,  as 
he  saw  it,  and  a  few  moments  later  Thompson  mut- 
tered :  "  I  think  he  meant  it,  but  wait  awhile.  That's 
my  gun  he's  got  and  mebbe  she  don't  just  fit."  An- 
other "  solitary "  was  presently  spied,  flushed,  and 
knocked  down,  but  a  something  in  its  abrupt  fall 
hinted  of  a  "  butted  "  wing.  As  feared,  only  a  few 
mottled  feathers  marked  the  spot,  but  aid  came 
from  an  unexpected  quarter.  "  Me  gettum  —  stan' 
dur  —  no  move !  "  rumbled  a  deep  voice,  and  Batteese 
slipped  past  and  seemed  fairly  to  glide  over  the  grass 
toward  some  larger  growth  fully  sixty  yards  off.  At 
its  edge  he  halted  for  many  seconds,  then  suddenly 
flung  himself  with  arms  outstretched  upon  a  tangle 
of  dwarf  stuff.  When  he  got  upon  his  feet  a  whirl 
of  brown  and  white  told  the  story.  "  Good  eye, 
Batteese ! "  grunted  Thompson,  and  we  moved  on. 
"  If  that  had  been  a  Bob  White  or  a  ruffed  grouse," 
he  continued,"  even  Batteese's  searchlights  might  not 
have  located  it.  He  never  saw  -a  Bob  White,  but " 
(turning  to  the  Breed)  "  s'posen'  dat  one  birch  par- 


Picked  from  the  Prairie  Province        241 

tridge,  you  find  um,  hey  ?  "  "  No  —  him  los',"  re- 
torted the  dusky  one.  "Him  run  —  no  find  — 
'cept  snow.  Track  den." 

We  had  not  travelled  a  mile  before  three  pinnated 
grouse,  coming  from  a  distance,  glanced  on  set 
wings  across  the  trail,  and  pitched  in  some  cover 
not  more  than  waist  high.  This  meant  a  royal 
chance,  for  in  such  shelter,  especially  just  after  a 
longish  flight,  the  "  chicken  "  is  apt  to  lie  very  close. 
Unluckily  they  flushed  together,  so  all  I  could  do 
was  tumble  a  brace.  The  quick  flash  of  Batteese's 
snowy  teeth  told  that  the  comparatively  easy 
double  had  won  him,  and  this  was  no  unimportant 
matter,  because  it  meant  an  enthusiastic  instead  of 
an  indifferent  punter  when  once  we  had  got  among 
the  ducks.  A  brace  of  ruffed  grouse,  killed  in  the 
snappy,  heavy-cover  style  learned  in  the  forested 
East,  completed  the  winning  of  Batteese ;  then  we 
passed  the  last  of  the  cover  and  rolled  out  upon  the 
open  plain. 

"  Dook  —  dur!"  growled  Batteese,  after  a  while, 
and  he  pulled  up.  "  All  hands  out  and  prepare  for 
war,"  whispered  Monroe ;  "  there's  a  little  slough 
beyond  the  rise  just  ahead.  I'll  go  right,  Thompson 
left,  and  you  slip  along  the  trail."  I  watched  the 
big  bent  backs,  and,  when  finally  Monroe  waved  his 
hand,  moved  warily  ahead.  As  I  topped  the  rising 
ground,  I  saw  some  fifty  yards  below  a  small  pond 
ringed  with  lush  growths,  at  the  edge  of  which  the 
trail  passed.  Monroe  and  Thompson  were  skirmish- 
ing toward  the  common  centre,  and  at  the  moment 
a  big  ripple  showed  on  one  side  of  the  slough  and  a 
dark  mass  went  into  the  cover.  Nearer  and  nearer 


242  Sporting  Sketches 

we  all  stole,  then  Monroe  called  out :  "  Ready ! 
Don't  drop  any  in  the  slough.  Let  'em  fly  clear  !  " 
There  was  a  breathless  pause,  then,  with  a  bursting 
roar  of  wings,  fifty  or  more  big  gray  ducks  sprang 
into  the  air  and  headed  straight  between  my  stand 
and  Thompson's.  A  whole  bunch  passed  so  near 
that  their  every  marking  was  visible  and  of  these 
I  tumbled  four,  three  to  the  first  barrel.  Two  quick 
reports,  and  it  seemed  to  rain  ducks  over  in  Thomp- 
son's territory;  then  that  worthy's  voice  rang  out: 
"  Quick  !  Watch  Monroe ! "  A  lone  pair  of  fowl 
had  turned  and  was  rushing  high  over  the  third 
gun.  Up  straightened  the  tall  figure,  two  barrels 
sounded  in  swift  succession,  and  duck  after  duck 
folded  up  like  a  brown  parcel  and  came  hissing 
down  to  strike  the  grass  with  an  earnest  whop !  — 
whop !  such  as  only  extremely  dead  fowl  make. 
And  from  Thompsonville-in-the-grass  arose  a  sound- 
ing a-ah  !  of  admiration,  for  'twas  a  noble  double  and 
the  temporary  mayor  of  Thompsonville,  etc.,  was 
above  any  petty  jealousy.  He  had  the  most  ducks, 
but  none  knew  better  than  he  the  difference  between 
flocking  a  near-by  bunch  and  pulling  down  such  a 
brace  of  climbers. 

"  Thought  you  had  me  out  in  the  cold,  eh,  you 
rascals  ?  but  I  did  get  a  crack,  after  all.  Oh !  I'll 
learn  yet.  My,  they're  a  fine  lot !  "  The  hearty 
ring  in  Monroe's  voice  was  good  to  hear,  and  I 
expressed  unqualified  admiration  of  the  prettiest 
lot  of  gun-work  seen  in  many  a  day.  But  the  real 
worshipper  was  standing  like  a  bronze  statue  in  the 
wagon.  Black  eyes  had  noted  every  move  of  that 
brief  skirmish,  and  they  flashed  with  joy  as  Monroe 


Picked  from  the  Prairie  Province        243 

sung  out :  "  Batteese  !  You  see  dem  try  rob  me  of 
my  chance  ?  Mean  trick  dat  dey  do,  hey  ?  "  But 
all  Batteese  said  was,  "Good  —  my  —  brudder!" 

That  ended  the  sport  for  the  time,  and  at  last  we 
caught  the  flash  of  distant  open  water,  near  which 
was  what  looked  like  a  doll's  house,  or  some  crumb 
of  civilization  dropped  from  a  balloon.  Breed  bands 
had  cut  the  rough  materials  miles  away,  then  put 
them  together  under  Thompson's  directions,  while 
the  door,  window,  and  dressed  boards  for  inside 
work  had  been  shipped  from  Winnipeg  and  hauled 
the  final  stage.  As  I  soon  learned,  it  was  a  mighty 
snug  shack.  The  long  rows  of  nails  upon  the  north 
wall  suggested  that  somebody  had  prepared  for 
great  numbers  of  duck,  but  the  south  side  was  more 
interesting  because  it  supported  a  rough  lean-to 
under  which  lay  a  big  skiff  and  two  fine  cedar 
canoes.  Inside  each  craft  were  stowed  two  light 
paddles,  a  long  punting-paddle,  and  a  dozen  hollow 
decoys.  There  is  no  danger  in  leaving  things  that 
way.  The  natives  never  meddle.  If  one  happened 
along,  he  possibly  might  borrow  a  few  decoys,  a 
paddle,  or  even  a  canoe,  but  everything  used  would 
be  carefully  replaced,  while  word  of  such  using 
would  be  sent  the  owner  at  the  first  opportunity. 

When  the  stuff  had  been  unloaded  and  properly 
stored,  Batteese  made  a  fire  and  prepared  bacon, 
eggs,  bread,  and  tea  for  all  hands.  The  ponies  were 
watered,  hobbled,  and  allowed  to  graze,  and  the  boats 
were  lifted  from  their  shelter  and  carefully  examined. 
They  proved  to  be  in  perfect  condition.  The 
huge  punt  was  a  queer  craft.  "  She's  my  trading- 
schooner,"  said  Thompson,  laughingly.  "  When  I 


244  Sporting  Sketches 

shoot  ducks,  I  like  to  feel  both  safe  and  comfortable 
—  so  there  you  are !  "  Monroe  winked,  for,  like  my- 
self, he  is  a  stanch  lover  of  the  cedar  canoe,  of  which 
he  is  undeniably  a  master.  The  trading-schooner 
was  Thompson's  (not  the  punter's,  you  understand !) 
idea  of  what  a  ducking-craft  should  be.  Not  so  very 
long  and  low,  but  of  tremendous  beam,  it  floated  with 
a  raft-like  steadiness.  About  midships  was  a  great 
revolving  chair,  in  which  the  mighty  captain  was 
wont  to  sit  in  plethoric  ease  and  administer  to  the 
ills  of  such  fowl  as  evinced  any  need  of  a  tonic  with 
lead  in  it.  Meanwhile,  the  unfortunate  punter  just 
punted  for  all  he  was  worth ;  and  when  he  got  back 
with  a  choice  lot  of  ducks,  as  he  invariably  did,  he 
mostly  slumbered  till  the  next  starting-time. 

When  the  craft  has  been  carried  to  the  water  and 
equipped  with  grass  and  decoys,  the  punters  de- 
parted for  their  near-by  but  hidden  village,  with  the 
understanding  they  would  return  at  gray  dawn.  As 
the  wagons  started  Thompson  bawled  after  them: 
"  If  you  meet  that  frog-eating  artist,  tell  him  to 
hustle  out  here !  We're  not  going  to  do  our  own 
cooking !  "  He  explained  that  a  young  Frenchman, 
an  expert  at  camp  cookery,  would  arrive  sometime 
before  sundown,  and  that  the  probable  reason  for  his 
tardiness  had  been  a  dance  somewhere  the  previous 
night,  an  attraction  which  no  Breed  nor  French 
Canadian  could  resist.  "  He's  a  nice  fellow,  is  Jean ; 
I've  had  him  with  me  many  times  and  have  yet  to 
see  a  better  hand  at  a  cook  stove.  Now,  we'll  get 
plenty  of  ducks  to-morrow  in  the  marsh  yonder; 
suppose  you  and  I  do  a  trifle  of  skirmishing  afoot. 
There's  a  few  miles  of  wet  ground  below  there,  and 


Picked  from  the  Prairie  Province        245 

we'll  surely  see  plover  and  perhaps  a  few  snipe. 
Let's  get  on  the  waders  and  fill  up  time,  anyway." 
Monroe  was  hanging  shooting  togs  upon  the  nails 
which  each  was  to  consider  as  his  own,  but  he  had 
changed  from  tweed  to  sweater,  cords,  and  waders. 
"You  fellows  go  ahead,  and  I'll  try  later;  the 
ground's  not  broad  enough  for  three  abreast,"  he 
said,  and  Thompson  bowed  in  mock  gravity  and 
replied,  "  Thanks,  O  most  gracious  monarch  of  the 
marsh ;  thy  insignificant  subjects  be  most  truly  grate- 
ful." I  felt  there  was  something  behind  this  peculiar 
speech,  and  as  we  tramped  toward  the  good  ground, 
I  asked  what  was  the  joke.  "  Joke ! "  exclaimed 
Thompson ;  "  there's  no  joke  about  it !  But  I  for- 
got you'd  never  seen  that  long-legged  old  pirate 
talking  to  small  game.  Gad !  if  he's  a  joke,  I'd 
hate  to  be  a  snipe  when  a  fellow  in  dead  earnest 
happened  along.  He's  as  fast  as  a  bullet  when  he 
wants  to  be,  and  those  big  lamps  of  his  can  see  be- 
hind like  a  rabbit.  You  just  wait  awhile  and  you'll 
see  something  worth  watching."  The  veteran,  in 
spite  of  his  firm  belief  in  Monroe's  superiority,  was 
himself  a  rare  good  shot,  as  I  presently  discovered 
when  we  reached  a  few  acres  of  the  blackest  of  mud. 
From  a  tussock  of  grass  sprang  a  swift,  brown  thing, 
its  bent  wings  making  a  "  Whip-ip-ip ! "  of  hollow 
sound,  its  alarm  cry,  a  rasping  "  Sca-ip  !  —  scape !  "  as 
it  darted  off  in  the  typical  series  of  twists  and  short 
zigzags.  Instantly  Thompson's  gun  cracked,  and 
the  wavering  flicker  of  brown  changed  to  a  point  of 
white  as  the  bird  turned  over  and  struck  the  mud. 
"  Whip-ip !  Sca-ip !  "  twice  repeated,  and  I  folded  up 
one  and  sent  the  other  to  the  mud,  to  bounce  again 


246  Sporting  Sketches 

and  again  as  the  cut  wing  refused  to  perform.  The 
last  bounce  carried  the  snipe  into  a  pool,  across  which 
it  swam  smartly,  then  ran  into  the  grass,  where  I 
presently  found  it.  Then  we  proceeded  to  enjoy 
one  of  those  bits  of  flawless  snipe-shooting  which 
reward  Northern  Nimrods  who  chance  upon  good 
ground  at  the  proper  times.  Thompson  kept  cutting 
down  his  birds  in  a  fashion  which  suggested  an  entire 
ignorance  of  the  art  of  missing,  while  I  hammered 
away,  the  keener  and  quicker  because  I  knew  what 
the  end  would  be,  but  was  bound  to  make  an  even 
race  of  it  as  long  as  possible. 

Not  seldom  three  and  four  birds  flushed  in  rapid 
succession,  those  unshot  at  sweeping  back  to  the 
ground  first  covered,  which  guaranteed  plenty  of 
sport  for  the  return.  At  a  point  some  half  a  mile 
away  from  the  start,  Thompson  halted  and  pushed 
back  his  cord  cap.  "  Guess  we're  far  enough  for  the 
first  trial ;  this  mud's  no  joke  to  a  heavyweight,"  he 
panted.  "  How  many  have  you  ?  I've  got  twenty- 
four."  In  my  coat  lay  nineteen,  and  I  feel  free  to 
say  that  the  united  straight  string  meant  rare  good 
work  by  two  men.  Needless  to  say  it  was  not  to  be 
expected  upon  many  days,  for  no  man  has  a  license 
to  average  more  than  three-fourths  of  even  his 
favorite  birds  the  season  through.  I  always  count 
my  shells,  because  I  want  to  know  exactly  how  I 
am  shooting,  and  it's  simply  wonderful  the  way  a 
fellow  will  forget  a  miss  here  and  there  unless  he 
has  some  sort  of  check  on  his  work.  Old  sports- 
men are  too  wise  to  worry  over  misses ;  in  fact  they 
don't  care  anything  about  them,  but  they  do  like  to 
know  their  true  form  each  day.  It's  astonishing 


Picked  from  the  Prairie  Province        247 

how  many  careful  men  will  get  astray  when  describ- 
ing their  shooting,  but  they  only  deceive  themselves 
when  they  tell  of  too  long  strings  without  a  reason- 
able number  of  misses. 

"Hullo!"  said  Thompson,  "yonder  comes  old 
snuff-'em-out  over  our  ground.  Now  watch  him  and 
you'll  see  what  crack  snipe  form  looks  like."  At 
the  home  end  of  the  ground  a  tall,  erect  figure  was 
steadily  moving  toward  us.  It  suddenly  halted,  and 
almost  instantly  we  heard  a  quick  crack-crack !  as 
though  both  barrels  had  been  fired  at  a  single  bird. 
The  distance  was  too  great  for  details,  but  Thomp- 
son said,  "  Watch  him  gather."  The  figure  resumed 
its  march,  only  to  halt,  stoop,  move  on  a  few  yards, 
and  again  stoop.  "  Good  !  "  grunted  Thompson. 
Five  times  the  advancing  gun  stopped  single  birds, 
and  presently  its  bearer  was  near  enough  for  the 
watchers  to  distinguish  every  movement.  "  Now, 
look  out.  I  think  there's  two  birds  right  in  front 
of  him,  and  if  he  happens  to  get  between  'em,  you'll 
see  why  I  just  dote  on  his  style.  Ha! "  The  cause 
of  the  sudden  exclamation  was  the  flushing  of  a 
brace,  —  one  bird  darting  due  east  and  the  other 
as  truly  west,  and  both  going  like  all  possessed. 
Crack !  and  the  right-hand  bird  spun  end  over  end. 
Crack !  and  the  second  spread  its  wings  stiffly  and 
slanted  down,  a  glint  of  white  showing  where  it 
turned  over  on  the  mud.  "  That's  the  way !  Good 
old  eye  ! "  roared  the  delighted  Thompson ;  then 
quickly  added,  "  Now,  watch  him  retrieve."  Mon- 
roe, loading  as  he  went,  walked  straight  to  the  last 
bird  and  picked  it  up.  Then  he  back-tracked  to 
the  firing-point,  faced  to  the  right,  and  walked  as 


248  Sporting  Sketches 

directly  to  the  second  snipe.  "  It's  a  good  way,  too," 
continued  Thompson ;  "  he  knew  that  last  bird 
might  be  lying  back  upward,  and  be  hard  to  see,  so 
he  never  took  his  eyes  off  it.  Had  either  seemed 
to  be  not  clean  killed,  he  would  have  gathered  that 
one  first,  because  a  wounded  bird  is  apt  to  run  a 
little  and  hide.  So  soon  as  he  got  back  to  his 
empty  shells,  it  was  easy  to  stand  a  moment  and  get 
a  true  line  upon  the  whereabouts  of  the  first  bird." 

"Well,  you  didn't  kill  'em  all,  I  found,"  chuckled 
Monroe,  as  he  joined  us.  As  we  neared  the  house, 
a  figure  in  shirt-sleeves  showed,  and  the  smoke 
rising  straight  above  the  roof  told  that  Jean  had 
arrived  and  got  busy.  Two  hours  later  we  pushed 
back  our  chairs  and  I  remarked :  "  This  is  great ! 
Jean's  the  greatest  killer,  unless  we  get  muzzles." 

"  Now  for  a  pipe,  and  then  to  bed,"  said  Thomp- 
son. "  The  boys  will  be  here  before  daylight,  and 
we  must  be  into  that  marsh  early.  You'll  have 
everything  ready  for  us,  Jean  ?  "  The  cook  grinned 
and  nodded  assent.  He  could  cook  a  heap  better 
than  he  could  talk,  and  he  well  knew  what  one  of 
Thompson's  early  starts  meant.  He  would  silently 
prepare  breakfast,  put  up  three  big  parcels  of  lunch, 
see  his  people  started,  set  the  house  in  order,  then 
put  on  somebody's  boots,  fill  his  pockets  with  shells, 
take  his  old,  cheap  gun,  and  away  to  the  wet  ground. 
Not  for  snipe  — "  Heem  too  small,  an'  heem  fly 
too  fass,  dat  small  beccasine  —  yes !  But  zee 
plovaire  —  yes!  Heem  go  slow  —  beeg  flock  — 
brum-brum !  Oh  !  yes." 

As  we  pulled  at  the  pipes,  ther.e  was  a  most  inter- 
esting chat  about  snipe.  According  to  Monroe,  the 


Picked  from  the  Prairie  Province        249 

dodging  flight  was  merely  a  peculiarity,  and  not 
what  many  writers  have  claimed,  i.e.  a  crafty  scheme 
on  the  bird's  part  to  baffle  the  gun.  In  the  brave 
days  of  old  when  such  small  birds  were  deemed  not 
worth  pursuit  by  our  meat-hunting  ancestors,  the 
snipe  dodged  as  he  does  to-day.  Then  such  a 
thing  as  a  firearm  had  not  been  dreamed  of,  yet  the 
bent-winged  dodger  scaped  and  twisted,  which 
proves  that  whatever  the  cause  of  the  peculiar 
flight,  it  was  not  to  baffle  the  aim  of  a  gunner,  or 
even  a  man  using  any  form  of  sporting  appliance. 
Before  the  invention  of  gunpowder,  game  was 
trapped,  and  the  larger  kinds  slain  with  the  bow 
and  arrow,  some  form  of  crossbow,  or  by  spear,  or 
other  contrivance,  held  or  hurled  by  the  hand.  A 
wee  fellow  like  the  snipe  had  naught  to  fear,  except, 
possibly,  some  form  of  trap  or  net,  so  there  was 
nothing  to  foster  the  development  of  the  dodging 
flight.  Nor  does  it  seem  reasonable  to  suppose 
the  quick  spring  and  twisting  movements  were 
intended  to  confuse  some  furred  or  feathered  foe, 
because  several  other  birds,  more  or  less  closely 
related  to  the  snipe,  haunted  the  same  ground  and 
were  exposed  to  the  same  perils,  yet  their  descend- 
ants of  to-day  show  no  trace  of  the  alleged  artifice. 
We  all  are  keen  observers  and  ardent  admirers  of 
our  beautiful  game  creatures,  but  we  place  no  faith 
in  those  too  common  writings  in  which  some  dreamy 
but  only  half-informed  pen-jugglers  cause  the  lower 
creatures  to  reason  and  converse  like  human  beings 
and  equal  the  brain-efforts  of  highly  intelligent 
men. 

The  snipe  dodges  because  he  is  built  that  way, 


250  Sporting  Sketches 

and  cannot  help  it.  Something,  perhaps,  in  the 
relative  proportions  of  the  very  long  bill,  the  wing, 
and  body,  or  in  the  shape  of  the  wing,  or,  what  is 
more  probable,  in  a  peculiarity  of  the  wing-stroke, 
causes  the  light  body  to  shift  irregularly  in  the  act 
of  attaining  high  speed.  To  credit  the  snipe  with 
an  intelligence  capable  of  wing-manceuvres  intended 
to  puzzle  a  man  is  absurd.  Probably  one-half,  or 
more,  of  the  snipe  killed  were  crossing,  or  at  such 
an  angle  to  the  line  of  fire  that  the  twisting  helped 
not  at  all.  Birds  that  knew  enough  to  play  tricks 
might  reasonably  be  expected  to  also  know  enough 
to  play  them  in  the  only  direction  in  which  they 
were  worth  playing.  Many  a  snipe  has  dodged 
out  of  the  line  and  back  just  in  time  to  catch  the 
full  charge.  The  fact  is,  a  snipe,  upon  a  calm  day, 
is  apt  to  fly  in  any  direction,  but  in  a  breeze  the 
favorite  route  appears  to  be  up-wind.  A  properly 
educated  snipe-shooter  knows  this,  and  unless  he  be 
one  of  those  who  prefer  the  more  or  less  straight- 
away shot,  he  works  down-wind,  which  means  that 
birds  rising  before  him  and  trying  to  fly  up-wind 
must  pass  at  either  side,  and  offer  a  chance  in 
which  the  dodging  ceases  to  be  a  factor.  And  there 
is  more  than  the  outwitting  of  the  dodging  in  the 
down-wind  work.  The  cross-section  of  a  snipe 
going  straight-away  is  not  bigger  than  a  silver 
dollar ;  the  rather  long  wings,  too,  are  then  edge-on 
to  the  gun,  while  the  vulnerable  head  and  neck  are 
more  or  less  protected  by  the  body.  These  condi- 
tions are  apt  to  mean  wounded  instead  of  instantly 
killed  or  winged  birds.  On  the  other  hand,  a  cross- 
ing snipe  needs  must  expose  one  entire  side  and 


Picked  from  tbe  Prairie  Province        251 

something  of  the  second  wing,  which  would  mean, 
roughly  speaking,  a  mark  as  large  as  one's  hand 
instead  of  the  size  of  a  dollar.  It  is  less  cruel,  too, 
for  the  simple  reason  that  the  easier  the  chances, 
the  greater  the  probability  of  exact  shooting,  which 
means  instantaneous  and  painless  death. 

The  session  was  closed  by  a  mighty  snort  and  the 
clatter  of  Thompson's  pipe  upon  the  floor.  He  had 
dozed  but  ten  seconds,  but,  as  he  said,  he  knew  the 
sign.  "  Last  man  dowses  the  glim,"  he  yawned ; 
"  upper  four  for  yours."  And  in  very  few  minutes 
a  sound  not  unlike  distant  surf  told  that  two  big 
fellows  had  got  away  to  a  remarkably  even  start.  I 
climbed  up  and  stretched  in  luxurious  ease  in  the 
folds  of  a  huge  gray  blanket  which  covered  a  sure- 
enough  hair  mattress.  Not  in  the  least  sleepy,  I  lay 
with  closed  eyes  studying  mental  pictures  of  broad 
wetlands,  above  which  springy,  bent-winged  sprites 
wove  mazy  problems  for  up-wind  shooters  to  unravel. 
I  had  just  about  made  up  my  mind  to  doze  off  when 
something  hauled  at  the  blanket  and  a  voice  roared, 
"  Tumble  down,  you  snoring  lubber !  "  Very  much 
astonished,  but  gloriously  rested,  I  followed  direc- 
tions, which  led  out  into  a  dim  gray  world  and 
finally  to  a  tin  washdish.  Half  an  hour  later  we 
moved  to  the  waterside,  where  the  punters  were 
waiting.  "  Off  you  go,  and  good  luck  to  you.  Be 
careful ;  there's  no  bottom  anywhere  in  the  marsh," 
said  Thompson,  and  in  a  moment  my  canoe  slid 
into  open  water  and  headed  north.  As  it  rounded 
the  first  bend  of  the  channel-like  open,  the  battleship 
steamed  straight  into  the  reeds,  while  the  second 
canoe  started  south. 


252  Sporting  Sketches 

"  Load  —  duck  —  soon,"  rumbled  Batteese,  and  I 
glanced  through  the  barrels,  loaded,  and  knelt  com- 
fortably, awaiting  developments.  Soon  a  quick 
double-shot  sounded  from  one  side,  and  a  long 
string  of  fowl  came  speeding  across  the  course. 
"  Red-head  —  shoot !  "  muttered  Batteese,  and  one 
dropped  at  longish  range  and  was  boated.  As  we 
rounded  a  bend  some  hundred  yards  farther  on, 
Batteese  whispered,  "  Can-vas-back-dur,"  and  I  saw 
about  twenty  big  fellows  floating  near  the  wall  of 
reeds.  No  mistaking  the  peculiar  wooden  appear- 
ance of  the  long  heads  and  proportionally  long 
necks,  the  latter  stiffly  erect  and  the  heads  looking 
as  though  they  had  been  stuck  on  at  right  angles 
to  their  supports.  With  a  quick  roar  of  wings  the 
fowl  sprang  straight  up  several  feet  above  the  water. 
It  was  a  fair  chance,  and  a  bird  fell  to  each  barrel ; 
but  alas !  the  second  duck  at  once  went  under,  the 
other  shifting  about  in  erratic  circles.  This  one 
Batteese  at  once  secured,  and  forever  ended  its  kick- 
ing by  nipping  its  neck  between  his  teeth  —  the 
most  persuasive  argument  to  reduce  a  duck  to  in- 
activity. No  effort  was  made  to  find  the  other. 
"  Canvas  —  back  —  dive  —  no  —  good  —  look,"  was 
all  the  satisfaction  I  got.  The  Breed's  shrewd  eyes 
had  noted  the  tipped  wing,  and  he  well  knew  how 
useless  would  have  been  a  search  in  such  a  place  for 
the  master-diver  of  all  our  choice  duck. 

"  Teal  —  dur,"  he  presently  warned,  and  I  saw  a 
dainty  wee  green-wing  standing  close  by  on  some 
drifted  reeds.  That  bantam  surely  had  electric 
flying-gear.  It  sprang  like  a  cuffed  grouse,  and 
through  a  double  puff  of  haze  "  vainly  the  fowler's 


Picked  from  the  Prairie  Province        253 

eye  "  did  mark  a  receding  speck  rather  suggestive  of 
an  extremely  busy  bee.  I  could  not  resist  a  peep 
astern,  and  lo !  Batteese's  noble  grinders  were  dis- 
played from  end  to  end.  "Teal  —  fass  —  look  — 
bluebill  —  quick!"  And  straight  ahead  streamed 
a  grand  flock  of  fully  one  hundred  of  the  square- 
built,  lively  fowl  which  so  greatly  add  to  the  sport 
of  the  larger  marshes.  Three  or  four  hit  the  open 
water,  others  crashed  into  the  reeds.  "Quick!  — 
shoot  —  crippul  —  "  warned  Batteese,  and  I  knocked 
over  a  duck  which  showed  signs  of  a  partial  recov- 
ery. To  pick  up  the  floaters  was  a  simple  matter, 
then  I  got  a  touch  of  the  Breed's  real  quality. 
Straight  at  the  wall-like  mass  of  reeds  went  the 
canoe,  and  when  she  had  been  forced  by  main 
strength  twenty  feet  into  the  cover,  he  said, "  Dock 
— dur ! "  and  under  my  hand  was  the  chunky,  floating 
form  of  a  nice  drake.  Then  out  crawled  the  canoe, 
only  to  butt  into  the  growth  again  and  again  at 
various  points  till  five  more  fowl  were  boated.  And 
not  once  did  I  see  a  feather,  until  the  laconic  "  Dook 
—  dur ! "  caused  me  to  look  straight  down  and  see 
the  floater  within  easy  reach.  The  last  time  he 
worked  far  in,  peering  from  side  to  side  and  parting 
the  reeds  with  his  paddle.  "  Woun  —  dud,"  he 
grunted,  but  the  next  moment  his  paddle  sung 
through  the  air  and  almost  decapitated  the  duck, 
which  was  trying  to  slip  abaft  of  the  canoe  and  some 
few  inches  below  the  surface.  The  craft  was  now 
firmly  wedged,  but  he  had  an  easier  method  than 
poling.  Moving  midships,  he  seized  a  handful  of 
reeds  and  pulled,  and  we  slid  several  feet,  after 
which  a  few  more  pulls  nearly  cleared  the  cover ; 


254  Sporting  Sketches 

then  he  went  to  his  place  and  backed  out  with  the 
paddle. 

"  Put  —  decoy  —  dur,"  he  remarked  as  we  neared 
a  long  point  of  reeds,  and  soon  the  dozen  lures 
were  riding  to  their  weighted  cords.  Then  the 
canoe  was  forced  her  length  into  the  reeds,  a 
bunch  of  the  tough  stems  was  tightly  twisted  round 
the  middle  thwart  at  either  side,  and  the  late  sensi- 
tive craft  was  as  steady  as  a  floor.  "  Bess  —  stan  — 
up  —  no — fall  — deep  —  dur,"  he  instructed ;  then  we 
changed  places,  and  I  could  stand  at  ease  with  eyes 
just  above  the  cover.  The  picture  was  most  inter- 
esting. Immediately  in  front  was  the  open  channel 
with  the  decoys  shifting  and  nodding  to  the  breeze 
in  a  most  lifelike  manner.  Forty  yards  away, 
another  wall  of  reeds,  and  beyond  that  a  brown, 
quivering  level  of  foliage  which  seemed  to  extend  to 
the  horizon,  and  above  the  brown,  in  half-a-dozen 
directions,  streamed  swift  fowl  in  long  flocks,  small 
groups,  and  pairs,  while  every  few  minutes  sounded 
a  dull  rump !  —  rump !  which  told  that  Thompson 
and  Monroe  were  having  a  lively  time  somewhere 
in  the  sunlit  waste. 

"  Blue  —  bill !  "  grunted  Batteese,  and  there  was  a 
hollow  humming,  and  a  single  duck  "cut  down  "  in 
the  beautiful  method  of  a  bluebill  stooping  from  a 
great  height  to  decoys.  It  struck  the  water  with  a 
spat  and  bounced  with  cork-like  buoyancy.  Batteese 
gave  it  one  glance  and  grunted,  "  Dead."  In  a 
moment  he  added,  "  Crow —  dook,"  and  I  saw  a  line 
of  very  large  foul  heading  straight  for  the  point. 
Cormorants  being  fishier  than  a  political  deal,  the 
sable  array  was  allowed  to  sweep  "past  upon  their 
fry-destroying  mission. 


Picked  from  tbe  Prairie  Province        255 

Bluebills  in  flocks  of  all  sizes,  and,  at  irregular 
intervals,  redheads,  came  whizzing  along  to  hover 
above  the  decoys  and  receive  a  double  salute,  and 
as  I  realized  that  there  were  unlimited  numbers  of 
fowl,  I  began  a  selection  process  in  which  only  rather 
difficult  shots  counted.  Even  then,  I  had  about  all  I 
could  attend  to.  "  More  —  shell,"  remarked  Batteese, 
as  he  passed  a  second  box  of  twenty-five.  "  Plain- 
tee  —  more,"  he  explained  as  he  proceeded  to  tear 
open  a  third  box  of  the  half-dozen  beside  him. 
He  knew  that  the  main  flight  was  yet  to  come, 
and  that  three  hundred  shells  were  none  too  many 
for  a  typical  day.  His  wild  blood  craved  slaughter, 
and  if  ten  thousand  fowl  could  be  killed,  so  much 
the  better.  But  I  have  notions  of  my  own  on  that 
question. 

Certainly  there  was  plenty  of  variety.  Now  it 
was  bluebill,  then  redhead,  then,  with  a  hollow  roar, 
a  dozen  swift  canvasbacks ;  then  the  measured  win- 
nowing of  a  pair  of  mallard,  the  steamy  hiss  of  the 
teal's  bullet  flight;  the  sounding  hum  of  shovel- 
lers; and  through  it  all  the  silent  black-and-white 
flickering  action  of  pretty  little  huffle-heads  and 
mergansers.  And  there  was  so  much  of  it  that 
before  noon  I  was  both  ready  to  eat  and  to  stop 
shooting  for  the  day.  So  the  gun  was  laid  aside 
and  we  dawdled  over  the  food,  heedless  of  the  rush- 
ing wings  audible  every  few  minutes. 

"  You  go  home  ?  "  he  blurted  out,  in  his  astonish- 
ment for  once  speaking  rapidly,  and  I  nodded.  He 
said  never  a  word,  but  his  face  appeared  to  take  on  a 
darker  shade.  The  canoe  was  freed  from  her  reedy 
tethers,  the  decoys  were  lifted,  and  he  began  his  quest 


256  Sporting  Sketches 

for  the  fallen.  "  How  many  you  make  it  ? "  I 
ventured.  "  Fifty-fo',"  he  growled,  and  something  in 
the  way  he  said  it  hinted  that  about  five  hundred 
and  four  would  have  better  suited  his  taste.  Then 
followed  the  finest  exhibition  of  gathering  that  I 
have  seen.  "  Fifty-fo',"  he  had  said,  and  "fifty-fo' "  it 
had  to  be,  or  there  would  be  a  raking  of  that  marsh 
by  the  fine-tooth-comb  process.  About  half  the 
ducks  had  fallen  into  the  reeds,  and  I  had  but  a 
vague  idea  of  where  any  of  them  lay.  Strung  along 
for  one  hundred  yards  of  the  open  channel  were 
white  and  dark  forms  slowly  drifting  with  the  breeze, 
but  to  these  he  paid  no  immediate  attention.  In- 
stead, he  paddled  up-wind  to  a  certain  point,  drove 
the  canoe  into  the  cover,  and  said,  "  Bluebill  —  dur," 
and  touching  the  side  was  the  duck.  Out  went 
the  canoe,  then  in  again  some  dozen  yards  below, 
straight  to  another  fowl.  Then  I  grasped  the  fact 
that  he  had  gone  to  the  most  distant  victim,  and 
proposed  to  drift  back  and  gather  the  others  in  turn. 
It  was  a  puzzle  how  he  could  remember  the  exact 
location  of  each  one,  especially  on  the  back  trip, 
which  meant  an  entirely  different  point  of  view. 
Yet  not  once  was  he  astray,  although  one  duck  was 
not  secured.  "Tink — woun  —  dud,"  he  muttered 
as  he  drove  the  canoe  far  in  and  parted  the  reeds 
just  ahead.  "  Gray  —  dook  —  los'  —  dive  —  dur," 
and  he  pointed  at  a  slight  movement  in  the  water, 
and  then  the  canoe  was  hauled  out.  The  boating 
of  the  floaters  was  easy,  and  lo !  the  last  made  the 
count  fifty-three. 

"  Batteese,  you're   a  wonder !  \  I  exclaimed ;    "  I 
haven't  the  slightest  idea  how  you  do  it,  but  I've 


Picked  from  the  Prairie  Province        257 

just  seen  it  done,  and  that's  enough  for  me."  The 
beady  eyes  twinkled,  and  the  white  teeth  showed  as 
their  owner  slowly  rumbled,  "  We  —  go  —  home  — 
nudder  —  way  —  find  —  dook  —  in  —  pond."  Only 
intense  satisfaction  could  have  released  this  torrent 
of  eloquence,  which  actually  startled  me.  And 
what  followed  seemed  even  more  wonderful  than  all 
previous  performances,  for  he  laid  a  straight  course 
for  the  invisible  shanty,  heedless  of  what  lay  in  the 
way.  Compared  with  tracing  even  erratic  channels, 
it  was  something  like  riding  across  country  instead 
of  following  well-defined  lanes,  and  more  than  once 
I  felt  a  trifle  dubious  concerning  the  issue.  But 
there  was  a  method  in  his  seeming  madness.  Right 
well  that  wily  rascal  knew  that  between  where  we 
were  and  the  shanty  lay  several  hidden  ponds,  his 
own  favorite  potting  places.  Not  for  a  lot  would 
he  have  revealed  them  to  either  Monroe  or  Thomp- 
son, to  whom  he  would  have  declared  the  route 
impracticable  on  account  of  weight,  which,  while 
false,  would  have  sounded  all  right  in  the  ears  of  ex- 
perts who  understood  what  extra  weight  means  in  a 
marsh.  The  simple  fact  was  Batteese  wanted  more 
ducks,  and  while  apparently  humoring  my  desire  to 
avoid  too  much  killing,  he  really  was  leading  me 
into  temptation. 

"  Beeg  —  dook  —  dur  —  keep  —  still,"  he  whis- 
pered, and  I  thought  I  might  as  well  be  ready. 
Straight  into  the  breeze  to  which  the  reeds  were 
whispering  crept  the  canoe,  and  a  something  in  its 
wary  movements  warned  that  it  was  no  ordinary 
quest,  yet  we  stole  on  and  on  for  full  fifty  yards. 
Then  on  the  breeze  came  a  murmur  of  peculiar 


258  Sporting  Sketches 

sound,  a  droning  of  many  duck  voices,  blent  with 
the  fluttering  of  many  wings  and  the  squattering  of 
feeding  fowl.  My  heart  thrilled,  for  I  knew  that  a 
mighty  host  of  web-footed  merry-makers  was  con- 
cealed just  ahead.  A  moment  later  the  cover  in 
front  suddenly  thinned,  and  I  came  near  yelling 
with  astonishment.  About  an  acre  of  open  space 
seemed  to  be  covered  with  a  live  and  exceedingly 
downy  quilt  of  a  most  amazing  pattern,  and  its 
nearest  edge  was  not  ten  yards  away.  Perhaps  no- 
where else  in  the  world  could  such  a  picture  of  wild 
life  be  seen,  but  the  view  was  brief.  "  Me-ak ! " 
shouted  one  horrified  fowl,  and  erstwhile  careless 
heads  bristled  up  in  every  direction  like  so  much 
stubble.  Then  with  a  roar  worthy  of  a  lightning 
express,  the  feathered  host  sprang  into  the  air  in 
such  close  order  that  the  sharp  biff-baff  of  clashing 
wings  was  distinctly  audible.  For  a  moment  it 
looked  as  if  the  entire  pond  had  gone  up,  but  Bat- 
teese's  gasping  "  Shoot  —  shoot !  "  caused  me  to  re- 
member the  excuse  for  the  intrusion.  "  Shoot ! " 
almost  prayed  Batteese,  and  as  the  feathered  canopy 
ripped  apart  and  left  one  great  drake  exactly  in  the 
centre  of  the  tear,  the  first  barrel  did  its  work  on 
the  single.  And  of  all  that  storm  of  life  the  second 
shot  stopped  but  three,  and  one  of  those  happened 
to  fly  into  it  fifty  yards  away.  And  poor  Batteese, 
to  say  the  least,  "  Heem  —  ver  —  sad,"  as  the  way 
he  drove  that  canoe  through  the  reeds  rather  sug- 
gested. No  more  clever  work  for  him  that  day. 
What  he  wanted  was  to  get  home  and  smoke  and 
ponder  upon  the  bitterness  of  his  lot  which  con- 
demned him  to  daily  association  with  a  duffer  who 


Picked  from  the  Prairie  Province        259 

didn't  know  enough  to  wreck  a  raft  of  ducks  when 
it  floated  within  easy  range. 

At  the  shanty  he  sulked  till  evening  brought 
the  others  home.  Then  again  his  wonderful  eyes 
sparkled  and  his  white  teeth  flashed,  for,  after  all, 
his  foolish  if  not  actually  crazy  white  man  was  not 
"low  boat."  And  to  brother  Alfred  did  Batteese 
confide:  "Heem  —  one — funny — man, — dat — beeg 

—  fel-low.    He — shoot — all — right,  — but  —  heem 

—  too  —  scare  —  to  —  kill  —  dem  —  much." 

"  They  seem  a  great  lot,"  said  Thompson,  as  the 
last  pair  was  tied  and  added  to  the  rows  upon  the 
wall,  "but  you  see  it's  this  way.  We  have  many 
friends  who  seldom  taste  game  unless  we  give  it  to 
them,  so  when  we  come  here,  we  shoot  for  the  crowd 
at  home  as  well.  If  we  killed  a  thousand  fowl,  not 
one  would  be  wasted.  Now  that  we've  made  so  good 
a  start,  we'll  hold  our  hands  a  bit."  And  this  was 
done,  and  day  by  day  the  bag  decreased,  until  finally 
only  canvasbacks,  redheads,  and  gray  ducks  were 
shot.  At  last  came  a  peculiar,  gray  morning,  which 
meant  "  Break  Camp."  All  through  the  previous 
afternoon  long  strings  of  fowl  had  risen  high  and 
streamed  away  due  south ;  so  word  was  sent  in  for 
the  wagons.  The  southbound  ducks  proved  true 
prophets;  for  as  the  last  of  the  outfit  was  taken 
aboard  the  train,  a  sudden  squall  and  a  horizontal 
rush  of  blinding  sleet  told  that  the  white  wolf  of  the 
north  was  afoot  for  a  southerly  raid  and  would  be 
howling  at  top  speed  ere  the  dawning. 


HE  was  mighty  hard  to  convert.  As  he  put  it 
himself,  he  was  "  sorter  sot  in  his  ways,"  and  above 
all,  he  "  didn't  keer  fur  no  durn  boys  to  be  foolin' 
round  him."  I  doubt  if  evangelist  ever  softened  a 
tougher  subject. 

I  was  then  a  big,  raw-boned  lad,  a  fairly  good  shot 
for  my  years,  and  crazy  to  get  hold  of  all  possible 
information  about  shooting  and  trapping.  I  had  to 
stay  with  an  elder  brother  in  the  woods  till  his 
lumbering  operations  could  be  concluded  in  the 
following  spring,  which  meant  that  I  had  at  least 
ten  months  during  which  I  could  fish,  shoot,  and 
trap,  according  to  season.  It  was  a  fine  opportunity, 
for  there  was  plenty  of  game,  large  and  small,  within 
rifle-shot  of  the  wretched  village  which  consisted  of 
a  foot-path,  with  a  saloon  and  a  couple  of  dozen 
other  buildings  strung  along  it.  At  least  half  of 
the  male  residents  hunted  or  trapped  at  odd  times, 
but  they  didn't  amount  to  much.  Several  of  them 
used  to  find  pleasure  in  stuffing  me  full  of  yarns  of 

260 


Tbe  Conversion  of  Trapper  Lewis       261 

their  experiences,  but  they  were  merely  picturesque 
old  liars.  The  real  trapper  and  hunter,  the  man  who 
had  trailed  across  the  continent,  and  who  knew  the 
secrets  of  woodcraft,  was  Lewis.  He  had  mined, 
prospected,  trapped,  and  hunted  in  the  far  west  and 
north  for  at  least  forty  years,  and  I  pined  to  know 
him  and  gain  his  confidence.  Many  attempts  had 
failed,  many  drinks  had  been  uselessly  paid  for.  I 
had  tackled  him  every  way  I  could  think  of,  yet  all 
I  had  received  in  return  had  been  an  occasional 
"  Hello,  Canady,"  when  he  chanced  to  be  feeling 
particularly  genial,  and  perhaps  a  few  muttered  re- 
marks when  he  agreed  to  swallow  drinks  at  my 
expense. 

Lewis  was  not  much  to  look  at.  He  was  short, 
thin,  and  did  not  weigh  more  than  one  hundred  and 
thirty  pounds.  His  face  was  brown  as  a  mink  pelt, 
much  wrinkled,  and  marked  with  a  ghastly  white 
scar  obtained  years  before  in  a  set-to  with  a  wounded 
grizzly.  Hair,  stubby  beard,  and  eyebrows  of  yellow- 
ish white  contrasted  curiously  with  his  dark  skin 
and  beady  eyes.  Taken  all  in  all  he  reminded  me 
of  an  ancient  monkey.  Despite  his  habitual  loung- 
ing walk  and  battered  exterior  he  was  full  of  vigor, 
and  quick  as  a  cat  if  occasion  demanded.  His  gait 
in  the  woods,  or  on  a  trail,  was  not  so  very  fast,  but 
he  could  apparently  stay  forever,  and,  as  I  found  out 
later,  he  had  a  peculiar  knack  of  wriggling  through 
rough  places  which  would  bafHe  many  larger  and 
more  powerful  men.  His  favorite  weapon  was  a 
double,  muzzle-loading  rifle  of  the  old-fashioned 
"  over-and-under  "  pattern,  and  with  this  rifle,  or  with 
any  large  revolver,  he  could  do  some  cracking  good 


262  Sporting  Sketches 

shooting.  With  the  shotgun  he  could  do  little  — 
he  wouldn't  try  it,  for  he  hated  that  weapon  with  all 
the  unreasonable  pertinacity  of  the  old  school  of 
still-hunters. 

"  Them  durn  noisy  things  won't  kill  nuthin' ! " 
was  his  contemptuous  remark  the  first  time  he  saw 
my  expensive  fourteen-gauge  muzzle-loader. 

This  was  the  kind  of  man  I  had  undertaken  to 
thaw  out,  and  my  scheming  for  two  months  had 
affected  his  bearing  about  as  much  as  a  New  York 
bonfire  would  affect  the  Polar  ice-cap.  He  once 
had  so  far  relented  as  to  say  to  a  friend  of  mine : 
"  Canady's  a  slick-spoken  feller  'bout  huntin',  an'  a 
mannersome  feller,  too ;  but  I  reckon  it's  all  book 
larnin'  an'  don't  amount  to  much  ennyhow.  I'd  like 
to  see  Canady  run  foul  of  a  bear  —  his  durn  slick  talk 
wouldn't  help  him  enny,  an'  I  reckon  his  shootin'  'd 
be  about  level  with  his  talk." 

Beyond  this  unsatisfactory  state  of  mind  he  had 
showed  no  symptoms  of  ever  advancing,  when  the 
first  of  three  events,  which  marked  three  stages  of 
what  finally  became  a  warm  friendship,  occurred. 

The  lounging-place  of  the  village  was,  of  course, 
the  saloon.  It  had  a  long  room  with  a  bar  across 
one  end,  a  pool  table  in  the  centre,  and  a  dozen 
rough  chairs  strung  along  the  walls.  The  pool  table 
happened  to  be  a  new  one,  and  at  that  time  I  was 
supposed  to  be  a  good  player. 

One  evening  I  strolled  down  to  the  saloon  and 
found  Lewis  and  half-a-dozen  of  the  regular  hang- 
ers-on sitting  swapping  yarns  and  possibly  (?)  wait- 
ing for  somebody  to  stand  treat.  -J  filled  the  long-felt 
want,  then  I  picked  up  a  cue,  and  began  knocking 


The  Conversion  of  Trapper  Lewis       263 

the  balls  about.  I  had  no  intention  of  playing,  so 
paid  no  heed  to  where  object  or  cue-ball  rolled. 
The  crowd  watched  me  lazily  for  perhaps  ten  min- 
utes ;  then,  to  my  astonishment,  Lewis  remarked : 
"  Say,  Canady,  I  reckon  I  know  a  feller  can  down 
you  at  that  game  —  fur  a  dollar!  " 

A  thought  occurred  to  me  that  perhaps  I  could 
get  solid  with  Lewis  at  last,  so  I  quietly  weighed 
the  chances  for  a  time  and  decided  to  take  them. 

"  So  you  think  your  man  can  beat  me,  Mr. 
Lewis  ? " 

"  That's  what  I  said,  Canady." 

"  And  you're  sure  he  can  do  it  ?  " 

"  Shure  !  I  know  he  kin !  If  he  don't,  he  ain't 
no  son  of  mine." 

"  Oh,  he's  your  son,  eh  ?  " 

"  That's  what  I  said." 

"  Well,  when  do  you  want  to  try  ? " 

"  Will  you  go  him,  Canady  ?  By  gosh !  we'll  just 
play  you  right  now.  I'll  fetch  him,  —  he  ain't  far 
off,  you  bet!  But  hold  on  thar,  Canady!  Just  pile 
up  the  dust  'fore  I  go  after  him.  Don't  want  to 
fetch  no  feller  fur  nothing,  understand !  " 

We  put  up  our  dollars  for  a  match,  best  three  in 
five  games,  and  the  old  chap  started  after  his  hope- 
ful progeny.  I  don't  think  he  had  far  to  go,  as  I 
suspect  the  son  was  just  outside  the  door,  and  the 
whole  affair  was  a  put-up  job.  Anyway,  they  soon 
appeared,  accompanied  by  all  available  citizens. 
The  old  man  evidently  considered  the  contest  an 
international  affair,  the  stakes  immense,  and  the 
coming  triumph  of  his  son  too  important  to  be 
missed  by  any  one. 


264  Sporting  Sketches 

The  crowd  took  up  easy  positions  around  the 
table,  and  the  game  began.  I  presently  wished 
myself  well  out  of  it,  for  I  soon  discovered  that  my 
opponent  was  a  very  ordinary  player  and  was  also 
badly  rattled.  Luckily  he  had  never  seen  me  play, 
and  it  would  have  been  a  simple  matter  to  have  let 
him  win.  This  I  had  figured  out  to  be  the  shortest 
cut  to  Lewis'  friendship,  and  I  intended  trying  it. 
But  an  unexpected  complication  arose.  One  of  the 
few  friends  I  had  in  the  place  sung  out,  "  One  dollar 
that  Canady  wins  the  match  !  "  This  was  a  muddle  ! 
I  could  not  fool  my  friend  out  of  his  money,  yet  if  I 
beat  young  Lewis,  —  farewell  to  all  hope  of  further 
association  with  his  redoubtable  dad.  Finally  I 
begged  off  on  the  score  that  the  betting  made  me 
nervous,  while  my  friend  took  alarm  from  a  timely 
wink  and  agreed  to  shut  up.  After  some  inten- 
tionally poor  play,  Lewis,  Jr.,  won  the  first  and 
second  games.  As  we  began  the  third  frame  my 
would-be  backer  edged  near  me  and  whispered  — 
"  What  in  thunder  are  you  tryin'  to  do  ?  They 
won't  play  no  higher ! "  I  could  have  roared  with 
laughter  at  the  idea  of  that  game,  for  the  entire 
outfit  couldn't  have  scared  up  ten  dollars.  Lewis, 
Jr.,  won  the  decisive  game,  much  to  his  delight. 
But  'twas  his  dad  who  derived  the  real  satisfaction 
from  the  winning. 

"  Gimme  them  thar  stakes !  Gimme  Canady 's 
dollar,"  he  shouted,  and  in  the  fulness  of  his  joy  he 
actually  treated  all  hands.  For  once  he  became 
talkative,  and  made  divers  sneering  references  to 
Canada  and  all  things  Canadian.^ 

I  felt  a  trifle  savage,  for  I  saw  that  I  had  made  a 


The  Conversion  of  Trapper  Lewis       265 

mistake.  Had  I  won  the  old  man  might  have  been 
mad,  but  I  should  not  have  earned  his  contempt. 
Therefore,  I  was  not  at  all  sorry  when  some  sharp 
talk  arose  between  my  friend  and  a  man  who  had 
wanted  to  back  my  opponent. 

Old  Lewis  was  keen  for  another  match,  but  I 
called  him  aside  and  asked  him  as  a  favor  to  sit 
still  and  watch  the  game  if  we  played  another. 

He  at  once  became  suspicious,  but  agreed  to  do 
as  I  asked.  Meanwhile,  the  disputants  had  ar- 
ranged another  match,  for  a  dollar  a  side,  young 
Lewis  to  play  and  stand  to  win,  or  lose,  nothing. 
This  arrangement  gave  him  confidence,  and  he 
rashly  broke  the  balls.  I  found  an  easy  set-up 
and  pocketed  fifteen  straight.  After  a  moment's 
silence  the  crowd  voiced  a  hearty  "  Good  boy, 
Canady ! "  and  before  the  man  who  had  lost  the 
dollar  had  time  to  get  real  mad,  I  had  made  the 
bettors  draw  their  money. 

Things  turned  out  better  than  I  had  expected. 
The  crowd  agreed  that  "  Canady  was  a  square 
feller,"  and  old  Lewis  held  out  a  paw  and  said : 
"  Put  her  thar,  Canady ;  yer  a  cuss  to  play  pool ; 
but  what'n  thunder  did  yer  throw  off  in  the  first 
game  fur  ?  " 

"  Just  for  a  bit  of  fun,"  I  replied,  for  the  last  thing 
I  wanted  him  to  know  was  the  true  reason.  From 
that  day  on  Lewis  and  I  became  almost  friendly, 
but,  while  he  would  speak  of  his  old-time  experi- 
ences in  the  West,  I  was  unable  to  edge  him  in 
the  direction  of  his  more  recent  doings.  In  fact, 
I  believe  he  thought  I  was  a  well-meaning  young- 
ster and  a  confounded  nuisance  to  boot.  Anyway, 


266  Sporting  Sketches 

he  showed  no  disposition  to  ask  me  to  join  him  for 
a  hunt  until  the  season  was  well  advanced.  I  could 
laugh  now  as  I  think  of  the  times  when  I  acciden- 
tally met  him  on  the  road  near  the  village ;  how  I'd 
pretend  not  to  see  him,  and  would  toss  up  a  small 
stone  and  rattle  a  load  of  shot  against  it  before  it 
fell,  and  how  at  last  I  killed  a  flying  pigeon  at  long 
range  —  longer  range  than  Lewis  had  credited  to 
the  despised  shot-gun.  That  time  he  stopped  and 
said :  "  Canady,  I  reckon  yer  pretty  handy  with  that 
scatter-gun,  if  that  pigeon  wasn't  killed  by  accident. 
Wish  I  could  run  you  up  agin'  a  drove  of  pa'tridge 
—  they'd  fool  you,  fur  yer  can't  hit  them  fellers  when 
they're  goin'  in  arnist." 

This  was  said  in  such  a  decided  tone  that  I 
almost  laughed.  I  told  him  that  "  pa'tridges  "  were 
easy  enough  sometimes,  and  to  my  delight  he  ex- 
claimed :  "  Is  that  so !  Well,  I'll  show  you  they 
ain't;  I  just  passed  a  drove  of  'em  a  piece  back, 
an'  if  yer  game  to  go,  I'll  take  you  to  'em,  and  see 
how  you  shoot." 

Lewis's  "  pa'tridge "  were  ruffed  grouse,  and  we 
soon  found  the  brood  in  some  briers.  When  they 
rose  in  the  open,  I  managed  to  kill  with  each  barrel. 
The  first  bird  was  the  old  hen,  and  the  fact  of  the 
second  being  a  slow  young  one  made  the  right-and- 
left  easy.  Lewis  was  thunderstruck,  and  his  surprise 
was  heightened  when  he  saw  the  old  bird.  But  in 
a  moment  his  prejudice  reasserted  itself,  and  he 
remarked :  — 

"Slick  work,  Canady  —  yer  a  hummer;  but  did 
you  hear  how  she  roared  through  the  timber? 
That  durn  gun's  too  noisy  —  she'd  scare  every- 


The  Conversion  of  Trapper  Lewis       267 

thing  out  of  the  woods !  An'  she  ain't  no  good 
fur  anything  bigger'n  pa'tridge." 

However,  old  Lewis  had  been  somewhat  im- 
pressed. He  spoke  of  the  grouse  in  the  village, 
and  I  heard  that  his  comments  upon  the  first 
wing-shooting  he  had  seen  were  quite  favorable. 
Still  the  longed-for  comradeship  did  not  arrive, 
although  the  thin  end  of  the  needful  wedge  had 
been  inserted  in  the  old  fellow's  cross-grained 
notions.  His  final  capitulation  came  about  in  this 
wise :  — 

One  day  I  felt  lonesome,  and  decided  that  a  tramp 
along  the  railroad  would  be  good  medicine.  I  did 
not  expect  to  do  much  shooting,  but  pipe  and  gun 
are  always  good  company,  so  I  took  both  with  me. 
As  I  was  in  a  wild  country,  a  couple  of  balls  to  fit 
the  gun  and  a  charge  of  buckshot  were  in  the 
pocket  of  the  shooting-coat.  I  knew  that  the 
railroad  ran  through  a  burnt  district  famous  for 
pigeons  and  berries,  and  decided  to  go  that  far 
and  bag  a  bird  or  two,  if  nothing  more.  Before 
I  reached  the  "burn,"  I  saw  old  Lewis,  with  rifle 
on  shoulder,  emerge  from  some  cover  and  cross  the 
track  ahead  of  me.  He  was  evidently  trailing  some- 
thing, and  in  a  moment  he  saw  me  and  beckoned. 

When  I  reached  him,  he  said  —  "Look  thar, 
Canady ;  what  you  think  of  that  fur  a  track  ? " 
I  saw  an  impression  in  the  dust,  and  asked  if  it 
was  not  bear  sign. 

"Just  so,  Canady;  'tain't  nuthin'  else  —  look 
a-yonder  where  he  crossed  the  creek." 

Sure  enough,  the  moist  sand  bore  unmistakable 
imprints. 


268  Sporting  Sketches 

"  Now,  Canady,"  the  old  man  went  on,  "  if  yer  good 
fur  a  whirl  with  him,  I  don't  care  if  you  come  along. 
He's  workin'  to  the  berry  patches."  I  at  once  drew 
the  charges  of  shot,  and  put  an  ounce  ball  in  one 
barrel  and  nine  buckshot  in  the  other.  Lewis  looked 
on  with  interest,  and  upon  my  telling  him  that  the 
fourteen-gauge  would  shoot  ball  first-rate,  he  ex- 
claimed —  "  Well,  I  hope  she  do  ;  fur,  by  gum,  she 
may  have  to  'fore  you  get  through." 

We  agreed  to  take  opposite  sides  of  the  creek, 
which  was  full  of  floating  logs  that  had  missed  the 
freshet,  and  were  waiting  higher  water.  Lewis's  part- 
ing advice  was  —  "  Go  slow ;  yer  not  apt  to  see  him 
till  you  reach  the  berry  patch.  Don't  try  no  fool 
shootin',  and  don't  let  that  fool-gun  get  you  into 
trouble." 

I  fancy  that  Lewis  knew  too  much  about  black 
bear  to  really  anticipate  any  serious  trouble,  but  I 
also  knew  that  his  advice  was  good,  and  determined 
to  act  upon  it.  We  parted,  Lewis  following  the 
tracks  across  the  creek,  while  I  moved  ahead,  keep- 
ing what  I  judged  to  be  about  abreast  of  my  com- 
rade. The  cover  was  dense,  and  the  course  of  the 
creek  very  erratic,  which  fact  made  it  as  likely  as 
not  that  the  bear  would  finally  be  found  upon  my 
side  of  the  water. 

After  a  lot  of  slow,  cautious  work  I  drew  near  to 
the  berry  patches.  No  sign  of  the  game  as  yet,  but 
I  presently  discovered  a  footprint  in  a  muddy  spot. 
It  had  been  made  by  the  bear,  and  so  recently  that 
the  muddy  water  was  still  slowly  trickling  into  it. 
So  the  brute  had  crossed  to-, my  side !  My  first 
thought  as  I  viewed  the  sign  was,  Won't  old  Lewis 


The  Conversion  of  Trapper  Lewis       269 

be  hot !  and  for  a  moment  a  feeling  of  triumph 
overcame  every  other  sensation.  He'll  sneer  at 
Canady,  will  he?  Guess  I'll  show  him  —  show  him 
—  what  ? 

The  triumphant  feeling  fizzled  out,  and  in  its 
stead  arose  a  sensation  of  utter  loneliness.  A 
second  glance  at  the  track  detected  a  number  of 
little  holes  in  the  mud.  Claws  had  left  those  traces, 
and  a  series  of  sickly  tremors  crept  up  my  spine  as 
I  peered  nervously  into  the  surrounding  cover.  At 
last  I  moved  forward,  but  halted  before  I  had 
covered  thirty  yards.  What  was  the  outrageous 
thumping  in  my  chest,  as  though  some  imprisoned 
thing  were  trying  to  beat  its  way  out  ?  I  knew 
what  it  was,  but  I  could  not  stop  it.  Did  I  really 
want  to  kill  the  bear — had  it  ever,  by  word  or  deed, 
injured  me?  I  felt  that  it  had  not.  Why  then  was 
I  so  keen  to  slay  the  poor  creature  —  why  was  I 
there  at  all  ? 

I  began  to  wish  myself  well  out  of  it.  Why 
hadn't  the  fool  bear  stuck  to  the  other  side  of  the 
creek  ?  Lewis  was  a  bear  hunter,  and  the  proper 
man  for  the  animal  to  interview.  Were  there  two 
bears  ?  If  there  were,  this  one  wasn't  the  bear  I 
was  after.  Old  Lewis  was  after  my  bear.  I  had 
nothing  against  this  one;  in  fact,  it  wasn't  the  bear 
at  all !  Besides,  mebbe  the  old  man  was  right  when 
he  said  that  a  shot-gun  was  no  good  for  bear.  I 
came  precious  near  going  over  to  see  old  Lewis 
about  it ! 

I  figured  out  that  mebbe  if  I  broke  a  stick  or  two, 
or  made  a  little  noise,  this  bear  would  sneak  away 
and  I  could  go  on  and  slay  the  right  one.  Finally, 


270  Sporting  Sketches 

the  uncertainty  became  unbearable,  and  I  crept 
doubtfully  forward  for  half-a-dozen  steps,  then 
shrivelled  into  as  near  nothingness  behind  a  tree  as 
a  man  can,  for  straight  ahead,  about  fifty  yards 
away,  was  the  bear!  It  had  not  seen  me,  and, 
luckily,  it  was  moving  from  me,  else  I'm  afraid  I'd 
have  stampeded. 

Its  black  body  disappeared  behind  some  cover, 
and  as  it  vanished  my  feeling  underwent  an  ex- 
traordinary change.  A  fever  of  excitement,  a  wild 
impulse  to  follow,  seized  me,  and  I  stole  forward  as 
rapidly  as  possible.  My  loss  of  nervousness,  and 
the  new,  keen  desire  to  kill,  astonished  me.  The 
sight  of  the  game  had  braced  me  up.  The  previous 
long,  uncertain  stalk  had  rattled  me,  but  things 
were  now  all  right.  "  Shot-guns  no  good "  be 
hanged,  and  old  Lewis,  too !  The  fourteen-gauge 
should  prove  its  merit  right  now. 

Crack !  crack !  the  double  report  of  Lewis's  rifle 
ripped  the  silence  of  the  woods.  I  leaped  upon  a 
log  and  saw  the  old  man  skip  behind  a  tree.  I  saw 
his  arm  flourishing  as  he  strove  to  reload ;  then 
something  black  rolled  into  view  about  halfway  be- 
tween us.  The  black  thing  finally  got  upon  its  feet 
and  came  blundering  directly  toward  me.  I  glared 
at  it  for  a  few  seconds,  then  tossed  up  the  gun,  and 
fired  both  barrels  when  it  was  hardly  twenty  yards 
away.  It  collapsed,  for  the  ounce  ball  happened  to 
find  the  head. 

Up  came  old  Lewis  on  the  jump.  He  took  one 
look  at  the  bear's  head,  then  excitedly  exclaimed, 
"  Great  gosh  !  " 

"What's  wrong?" 


Tbe  Conversion  of  Trapper  Lewis       271 

"  Why,  Canady,  I'll  be  eternally  chawed  up ! 
Why  didn't  you  blow  the  hull  head  off  the  durned 
fool,  while  you  was  at  it  ?  By  gosh,  that  scatter-gun 
shoots  some !  See  whar  the  buckshot  ketched  'im ; 
the  big  ball  knocked  the  brains  clar  out.  But, 
Canady,  I  drawed  true  on  him ;  I  bust  his  shoulder, 
t'other  ball  cut  his  leg.  I  knowed  it  would,  fur  it 
grazed  a  sapling." 

So  I  had  managed  to  knock  down  a  dying  bear, 
and  to  fill  it  so  full  of  missiles  that  its  hide  might 
have  served  as  a  title-deed  to  a  lead  mine.  I  didn't 
care  if  I  had  —  we'd  killed  the  bear! 

The  animal  was  not  nearly  so  large  as  I  had  ex- 
pected. I  waived  all  share  of  the  quarry  and  the 
bounty,  if  there  was  one.  Lewis  got  out  his  knife 
and  gave  me  an  object-lesson  in  the  matter  of  how 
to  flay  and  carve  a  dead  bear.  This  part  of  the  fun 
was  rather  tedious  and  unpleasant.  He  hung  up 
the  skin  and  hams,  then  we  went  down  to  the  creek 
and  washed  our  hands. 

The  old  man  was  jubilant.  He  thawed  out 
wonderfully,  and  I  saw  readily  enough  that  I  and 
the  shot-gun  had  climbed  considerably  in  his  esti- 
mation. But  I  could  not  guess  that  within  the 
next  ten  minutes  Lewis  was  to  become  my  sworn 
friend  for  life. 

He  wanted  to  hurry  home  to  get  his  horse  for  the 
purpose  of  packing-in  the  bear,  and  he  told  me  that 
one  big  pool  formed  by  the  creek  was  jammed  so 
full  of  logs  that  we  could  cross  dry-footed  and  make 
a  bee-line  for  his  house. 

When  we  reached  the  jam,  I  didn't  like  its  look, 
but  Lewis  said,  "  It's  easy ;  I'll  learn  you  how  to 


272  Sporting  Sketches 

skip  'em."  He  did,  with  variations  not  on  his  pro- 
gramme. 

The  logs  appeared  to  be  firm  enough  until  he  was 
halfway  across.  Then  he  stopped  and  laughingly 
told  me  to  follow.  As  he  spoke,  either  his  foot 
slipped,  or  the  log  he  was  on  turned  —  anyway,  he 
disappeared.  I  had  just  begun  to  laugh,  when  I 
saw  the  disturbed  logs  draw  close  together  over  the 
one  open  space  which  Lewis  had  found  in  his  de- 
scent. Down  went  the  gun,  the  coat  fell  on  a  log 
three  jumps  from  there,  and  the  last  bound  of  a  mad 
rush  landed  me  on  the  log  Lewis  had  just  vacated. 
The  shock  separated  the  log  a  few  inches  from  its 
neighbor,  and  with  a  foot  upon  each  I  strained  to 
broaden  the  gap.  In  an  instant  they  were  a  couple 
of  feet  apart,  and  I  dropped  between  them  into  water 
up  to  my  armpits.  With  an  arm  over  each  log  I 
hung  and  worked  my  long  legs  scissors-fashion 
through  the  water.  Old  Lewis  was  there  all  right, 
tumbling  about  in  the  liveliest  kind  of  way,  and  I 
hadn't  kicked  three  times  before  he  seized  me  by 
the  thigh  and  climbed  up  my  body  like  a  cat  scaling 
a  fence  post.  The  first  thing  he  did  was  to  spout 
about  a  pint  of  water  into  my  face,  then  he  yelled 
like  an  Indian. 

There  wasn't  anything  much  the  matter  with 
him,  but  he  was  about  as  badly  scared  a  man  as  I 
have  ever  seen.  He  recovered  in  a  moment,  and  we 
both  went  ashore  to  strip  for  the  work  of  securing 
the  rifle.  This  was  accomplished  by  forcing  the 
logs  well  apart  and  prodding  for  the  rifle  with  a 
stout  branch.  As  the  water  w.as  barely  six  feet 
deep  we  soon  located  the  weapon,  then  Lewis  held 


The  Can-version  of  Trapper  Lewis       273 

the  branch  firmly  while  I  climbed  down  it  and  re- 
turned. Then  we  went  ashore  and  had  the  delayed 
laugh  out.  Lewis  told  me  how  it  felt  to  be  under 
water  and  vainly  butting  one's  head  against  a  roof 
of  logs.  Later  when  we  parted,  he  wrung  my  hand 
and  told  me  this :  "  Put  her  thar,  Canady.  I  ain't 
the  feller  to  forget  bein'  snaked  outen  a  scrape  like 
that.  Ef  it's  a  go,  we'll  hunt  pardners  this  fall  an' 
trap  her  out  till  spring."  And  we  did. 


I  HAD  just  left  the  horse  show  and  was  glad  of  it, 
for  it  was  much  nicer  to  dawdle  along  the  east  side 
of  the  Square.  It  was  a  glorious  night,  moony  and 
sweetly  calm  —  the  finest  imaginable  correction  for 
the  overdose  inside  the  Garden.  Suddenly, "  Hello ! " 
said  somebody  close  by.  I  looked  up  —  I  stood  a 
fraction  over  six  feet  high  —  yet  I  looked  up. 

What  I  saw  was  worth  several  long  looks.  One 
doesn't  often  see  a  middle-aged  man  who  stands 
six-feet-three,  on  legs  as  straight  as  ramrods ;  above 
them,  a  waist  like  a  healthy  girl's,  chest  and  shoulders 
worthy  of  old  Hercules  himself,  and  topped  off  with 
a  big  handsome  face.  The  carelessly  swinging 
covert-coat  revealed  an  expanse  of  white  which 
looked  like  a  tombstone  erected  to  the  memory  of 
clean,  sagacious  living. 

"  This  is  curious,"  he  said  in  a  hearty  voice. 
"  Not  half  an  hour  ago  we  were  speaking  about  you. 
I  was  wondering  if  you  were  game  for  a  day's  Bob 
White  shooting  on  Long  Island,  Staten  Island,  or 
anywhere  else  within  easy  reach.  I've  a  friend  from 
England,  a  parson  and  a  good  sort,  who  is  eager  to 
try  what  he  calls  '  quail,'  as  we  did  until  last  year." 

"  The  whole  thing's  curious,  Doctor,"  I  replied, 
"  for  it  happens  I've  a  pressing  invitation,  good  for  a 

374 


Four  of  a  Kind  275 

couple  of  friends,  too,  to  try  a  bit  of  sport  in  Penn- 
sylvania. I  know  the  ground,  and  my  friend  has  a 
good  dog." 

In  very  few  minutes  all  details  were  settled,  and 
we  parted  with  the  understanding  that  he  and  his 
clerical  friend  were  to  meet  me  at  the  Jersey  side  in 
time  for  a  convenient  train.  When  we  met,  I  was 
rather  startled,  for  the  friend  stood  fully  six-feet-four, 
and  the  pair  of  'em,  in  tweed,  suggested  a  couple  of 
stately  brown-stone  fronts.  The  new  parson  was 
precisely  the  sort  of  friend  the  other  might  be 
expected  to  have. 

Now,  until  we  had  left  the  train  at  our  destination, 
I  clean  forgot  what  manner  of  man  would  meet  us; 
but  presently,  as  a  truly  gigantic  figure  bore  down 
upon  us,  it  came  over  me.  It  looked  like  a  case  of 
six-feet-one,  six-feet-three,  six-feet-four,  and  one  for 
His  Nobbs,  for  he  stood  six-feet-six.  The  fact  that 
our  guide  had  taken  his  turn  at  the  reading-desk,  an 
occasional  whack  at  the  pulpit,  and  actually  was  a 
church  warden  at  that  blessed  moment,  didn't  lessen 
the  fun  any. 

"  What  are  you  giggling  at  ?  "  curtly  demanded 
my  parson,  and  the  twinkle  in  his  blue  eye  was 
irresistible. 

"  I  —  I  hardly  know,"  I  stuttered.  "  What  is  this 
outfit,  anyhow,  a  high-church  deputation,  or  just  an 
accident  ?  You  know  I'm  the  son  of  an  arch- 
deacon." 

"  True,  I'd  forgotten  that,"  he  retorted.  "  It  does 
look  a  bit  shoppy,  and  as  you're  an  unregenerate 
ruffian,  we'll  have  to  call  you  the  Lay  Delegate." 

The  Pennsylvanian,  at  a  reasonable  hour  in  the 


276  Sporting  Sketches 

morning,  had  a  smart  team  hooked  to  a  democrat 
wagon,  and  the  first  ground  was  only  about  five 
miles  away.  He  had  a  businesslike-looking  pointer, 
and  we  were  to  pick  up  another  dog.  Even  so  late 
in  the  season  that  portion  of  the  state  forms  an 
exceedingly  attractive  picture.  It  is  true  we  had 
missed  the  full  glory  of  the  turning  leaf,  but  there 
still  lingered  much  warmth  in  the  browning  foliage, 
while  blue  hills,  dimly  seen  through  silvery  haze, 
formed  a  superb  background. 

The  ground  looked  almost  too  clean  for  quail,  but 
presently  our  guide  pulled  up  his  team  and  ex- 
claimed —  "  See  'em  crossin'  —  thar  they  be  !  "  As 
we  looked  a  cock  quail  sprinted  across  and  was 
closely  followed  by  half-a-dozen  birds,  seemingly  a 
bit  larger  than  the  ordinary  type. 

"  Out  with  you,  Lay  Delegate  —  we'll  hold  the 
dogs ! "  commanded  the  parsons,  and  as  they  posi- 
tively refused  the  chance,  I  speedily  unlimbered. 

"  Birr  !-birr-birr-birr  !  "  Not  the  expected  half 
dozen,  but  fully  twenty  birds  sprang  yards  into  the 
air.  Two  cocks  and  a  hen  streamed  fair  across  the 
road,  and  the  stopping  of  the  white  throats  was  a 
crisply  easy  task.  As  I  looked  toward  the  wagon, 
two  stately  figures  rose  and  stood  respectfully  un- 
covered. Mentally,  I  could  see  stained-glass  windows 
close  behind  'em. 

"  Them's  willow  legs !  "  declared  the  guide,  posi- 
tively, as  I  handed  up  the  birds.  Needless  to  say 
the  quail  were  the  common  type,  although  unusually 
fine  and  large. 

Very  pretty  but  rather  peculiar  shooting  followed. 
The  ground  was  so  clean  that  birds  flushed  at  from 


Four  of  a  Kind  277 

ten  to  fifteen  yards.  The  dogs,  however,  proved  to 
be  of  the  useful,  pottering  sort,  working  with  almost 
exasperating  carefulness  and  propping  the  instant 
they  made  game. 

But  the  parsons  were  the  real  joy  of  the  day.  I 
had  rashly  concluded  that  the  friend  never  could 
equal  the  other's  acknowledged  skill,  but  I  acquired 
much  wisdom  within  half  an  hour.  After  four 
straight,  clean  kills,  I  put  away  the  pipe  and  began 
to  get  square-jawed.  It  was  beautiful  to  watch  their 
clean,  snappy  action  and  the  smoke-like  puffs  of 
feathers  which  never  come  save  from  a  bird  fairly 
centred.  When  my  fifth  was  clean  muffed,  there 
sounded  a  soft  "  Ah  !  "  which  was  immediately  fol- 
lowed by  the  spiteful  squinge  of  smokeless,  and 
the  bird  went  down  like  a  rag. 

From  that  on  the  Lay  Delegate  had  a  very  hard 
time  trying  to  curb  the  impetuosity  of  the  rectors. 
I  got  one  of  'em  about  the  ninth  bird,  but  the  other 
proved  absolutely  ungettable,  for  he  hung  to  his 
saving  lead  till  the  shadows  lengthened  and  the  blue 
hills  blurred.  The  other,  the  friend,  struggled 
nobly,  but  I  managed  to  keep  him  one  notch  be- 
hind. In  justice  to  him,  only  his  lack  of  practice  at 
the  game  saved  me. 

When  we  reached  the  wagon,  I  felt  like  a  man 
who  had  enjoyed  an  almost  perfect  day.  They  were 
so  enthusiastic  —  so  clever  —  so  crisply  clean  of 
speech  and  thought  —  that  they  added  a  peculiar 
zest  to  the  thing.  For  once  there  had  been  a  three- 
cornered  shooting  party  without  flask,  shady  yarn,  or 
any  of  those  really  not  serious  lapses,  which  yet  occur 
and  jar  the  s\veet  wholesomeness  of  a  sport  which 


278  Sporting  Sketches 

should  be  as  clean  as  the  soul  of  a  child.  There 
were,  however,  jokes  and  anecdotes  a-plenty,  prime 
good  fellowship  and  pipes  —  in  fine,  all  a  decent 
man  could  ask  for.  "  And,"  thinks  I  to  myself, 
"  these  are  the  men  I  was  a  wee  bit  shy  about 
and  was  secretly  dubious  of  in  the  matter  of  their 
ability  both  as  field-workers  and  good  fellows. 
Never  again  for  me  the  hesitancy.  Henceforth 
parsons  for  mine !  They  elevate  every  phase  of  the 
fun." 

As  we  were  all  pretty  tired,  it  was  voted  to  sleep 
at  the  small  hostelry,  and  roll  comfortably  home 
next  day.  Our  guide  went  to  his  house,  and  we 
loafed  all  we  could  over  an  excellent  supper,  and  at 
last  stepped  upon  the  piazza  for  a  few  breaths  of 
sweet  air  before  turning  in.  All  three  rooms  com- 
manded the  street.  As  we  stood  upon  the  piazza 
the  air  seemed  filled  with  a  peculiar,  silvery  mist,  to 
which  the  faint  moonlight  imparted  an  almost 
uncanny  effect.  On  the  line  of  the  fence  opposite  a 
single,  tall,  white  thing  showed  in  an  undecided  sort 
of  way. 

In  a  spirit  of  sheer  idleness,  and  because  we  couldn't 
make  it  out  from  where  we  were,  we  strolled  toward 
it.  It  proved  to  be  a  long,  bottle-shaped  board  upon 
which  was  an  "  ad  "  of  somebody's  whiskey ! 

"  Strange,  how  deceiving  this  light  is  —  that 
board  looked  to  be  fully  sixty  yards  away,  yet  it's 
but  forty-five,"  remarked  my  parson,  as  we  regained 
the  piazza. 

"  Not  six  inches  over  forty-two,  I  should  say," 
said  the  friend,  positively.  "  What  do  you  think  ?  " 
he  added,  speaking  to  me. 


Four  of  a  Kind  279 

"  About  forty  —  no  more  —  light's  baffling,"  I  re- 
plied. 

Like  men  who  have  nothing  to  worry  about  we 
chaffed  each  other  unmercifully  concerning  our 
several  abilities  at  judging  distance.  On  a  sudden 
it  flashed  into  my  mind  that  both  the  others  had 
returned  with  most  stately  strides !  Stepping  it  off ! 
And  in  an  instant  I  became  worldly  and  —  and  — 
wary. 

"  Tell  you  what  we'll  do,"  exclaimed  my  parson, 
as  we  turned  into  the  house  —  "I  say  forty-five 
yards  —  you  say  forty-two,  and  the  Lay  Delegate 
says  forty.  We'll  measure  it  in  the  morning  and 
learn  who  has  the  truer  eye  —  and  —  the  poorest 
guesser  shall  pay  the  bill  for  all.  How's  that  ? " 
We  agreed,  and  the  host  grinned  cheerfully.  Pres- 
ently he  produced  a  huge  tape-line  and  remarked 
— "  There's  the  settler  —  what's  the  matter  with 
a-measuring  of  her  right  now  ? " 

My  parson  took  the  tape,  pulled  out  a  few  feet, 
wound  them  back,  seemed  to  study  a  moment,  then 
said :  "  No  use  bothering  now,  I'm  for  bed :  we  can 
settle  the  thing  in  the  morning,"  and  upstairs  he 
marched,  after  placing  the  tape  upon  a  small  bracket 
in  the  hall. 

For  some  reason  I  was  extremely  wakeful.  For 
a  long  time  I  lay  thinking  of  many  things  and  inci- 
dentally listening  like  a  deer.  At  last  there  came  a 
sound  —  the  slow  creaking  of  a  bed,  followed  by  an 
uncertain  rustling.  Then  a  door  creaked,  stopped, 
and  again  creaked,  and  presently  came  the  muffled 
pat-pat  of  cautious  feet.  My  window  was  wide  open, 
so  I  noiselessly  moved  until  I  could  command  the 


280  Sporting  Sketches 

street  and  the  white  sign  in  dispute.  After  what 
felt  like  fifteen  minutes,  a  board  outside  groaned, 
and  a  moment  later  a  very  tall  form  moved  dimly  in 
the  street.  There  came  a  steady  purring  sound  as 
the  figure  advanced,  and  I  chuckled,  for  only  a  tape- 
line  makes  that  sound.  Presently  the  figure  reached 
the  sign,  there  was  a  trifling  crash.  The  white  thing 
moved  a  few  feet  in  my  direction,  then  lo !  it  stood 
stiffly  in  position,  and  I  heard  the  winding-in  of  the 
tape.  It  was  now  exactly  forty-five  yards  away. 

After  a  bit  he  stole  back,  and  I  waited.  Shortly 
there  was  again  a  form  in  the  road,  again  the  meas- 
uring, shifting  of  the  mark,  and  winding  up. 

"  She's  in  the  forty-two  hole  now,  all  right,  but 
she'll  stand  even  forty  when  I  get  through  with 
her."  I  chuckled  as  I  waited  for  the  other  fellow 
to  get  asleep,  or  at  least  settle  down.  I  can  cat-foot 
like  the  real  thing,  and  the  way  I  finally  drifted 
down  to  that  tape  and  out  to  the  post  was  a  triumph. 
The  distance  from  the  scraper  to  the  sign  was  as 
near  forty-two  yards  as  it  could  be  made.  In  a  mo- 
ment the  mark  was  shifted  to  the  even  forty.  I 
restored  the  tape  to  its  place  and  regained  my  room 
without  creaking  a  board,  and  soon  I  was  sound 
asleep. 

"How  about  that  sign-board  —  hadn't  you  best 
take  a  look  at  it  in  daylight  ?  "  queried  the  host,  after 
breakfast  the  next  morning. 

"  I'm  game  to  stick  to  my  figure ;  we'll  measure 
presently,"  I  replied. 

"  The  same  here,"  and  "  Here,"  said  the  parsons, 
gravely. 

"  Let  me  see,"  said  the  host  to  rrty  parson  —  "  you 


Four  of  a  Kind  281 

said  forty-five  yards,  and  you,"  turning  to  the  other, 
"  said  forty-two,  and  Dellygait  here,  he  took  even 
forty  for  his'n.  You  men  are  mighty  poor  guessers. 
Why,  you  ain't  none  of  you  within  five  yards  of  the 
actool  distance  —  that  is,  not  if  I  know  anything." 

Each  of  us  told  him  he  surely  was  wrong,  to  which 
he  retorted  that  he'd  bet  our  total  bills  against 
a  "  ten  spot "  that  he  was  nearer  right  than  we  were. 
The  parsons  being  out  of  the  question,  I  took  him 
up. 

Before  we  could  start  for  the  measuring,  we  heard 
a  cheery  voice  and  a  heavy  step,  and  into  the  room 
strode  our  gigantic  guide. 

"  Mornin'.  Thought  I'd  just  step  in  to  see  how 
you'd  rested  up." 

We  assured  him  that  we  never  felt  better;  then 
laughingly  explained  about  the  wager  and  that  we 
were  just  going  to  measure  the  distance  and  learn 
who  was  the  victim.  He  gave  a  quick,  peculiar 
gasp,  then  his  broad  face  set  in  an  expression  of 
stolid  indifference,  but  for  some  reason  his  eye 
seemed  to  fairly  blaze  with  delight. 

"  Lemme  see,"  he  said,  "  you  say  forty-five,  and  you 
forty-two,  you  forty,  and  the  Boss  here  bets  none  of 
you  is  within  five  yards  of  the  correct  figure.  Well, 
one  thing's  certain  —  the  Boss  ain't  in  it !  " 

"  That  so  ?  Bet  you  five  I  win,"  chuckled  the 
Boss. 

"  I'll  just  have  to  go  you !  "  retorted  our  guide, 
and  they  put  up  the  money. 

The  Boss  and  the  guide  did  the  measuring  while 
the  rest  of  us  looked  closely  on.  They  had  to  do  it 
over  three  times  before  both  had  to  own  that  the 


282  Sporting  Sketches 

truthful  tape  made  the  distance  —  exactly  forty-six 
yards  four  inches ! 

Never  had  I  beheld  three  such  faces  of  mystified 
wonder,  but  the  Boss  was  the  worst.  He  finally 
gasped  out  —  "  Wuh  —  wuh  —  wull  —  it's  —  one  — 
on — me!  But  I'll  be  chucked  if  I  see  how  it 
came  about !  " 

Some  time  later  he  shook  hands  with  us  and  said 
he  hoped  we'd  come  again  soon,  but  his  eyes  had  a 
far-away  look  and  his  voice  lacked  its  customary 
ring.  The  guide,  however,  kept  grunting  to  himself, 
and  at  the  station  he  finally  said :  — 

"  I  don't  just  savvy  that  there  betting  proposition 
yet.  There's  something  awful  funny  about  it.  He 
feels  mighty  sick  back  there  'bout  something. 
Mebbe  he  knowed  that  there  board  had  been  moved 
and  mebbe  he  didn't."  We  were  guiltily  looking 
various  ways.  "  You  see  them  whiskey-signs  is 
also  half-mile  posts.  They're  placed  by  the  firm 
along  the  main  roads,  and  the  pesky  boys  here- 
'bouts  thinks  its  mighty  smart  to  keep  a-shiftin'  of 
'em.  Dunno  why,  but  they  do  it.  Fact  is  I'm  paid 
a  little  by  the  agent  to  set  up  them  signs  and  sorter 
look  after  'em  and  keep  'em  somewhere  near  their 
proper  places.  I've  put  yonder  one  back  a  dozen 
times.  I  found  she  was  away  out  this  mornin'  as  I 
came  in,  so  I  set  her  back." 

For  a  long  time  we  smoked  and  chatted  in  com- 
fort, but  at  last  my  parson  glanced  quizzically  from 
one  to  the  other,  and  said  what  I  knew  he  would 
say  before  we  parted.  He  told  of  the  little  joke  he 
had  planned,  and  how,  of  course,  he  had  intended 
to  reimburse  the  loser  after  the  joke  had  gone  far 


Four  of  a  Kind  283 

enough.  This  we  knew  was  true.  To  his  great 
astonishment  his  friend  presently  told  how  he  had 
heard  the  other,  had  watched,  twigged  the  joke, 
and  later  had  slipped  out  and  shifted  the  board ; 
also,  of  course,  intending  to  tell  later. 

They  had  a  lot  of  fun  over  it,  and  hearty  were 
their  guffaws.  Finally,  after  those  grand  fellows 
had  laughed  and  slapped  each  other's  backs  like  big 
care-free  boys,  I  —  well,  I  told  my  story.  It  was  a 
pity  our  host  was  not  there  to  join  us.  For  such 
high  church  folk  we  certainly  played  it  low  down. 


IF  the  red  grouse  of  Britain  is,  as  I  believe  him  to 
be,  the  king  of  the  entire  grouse  family,  then,  of  a 
surety,  the  next  best  one,  our  own  ruffed  bird,  should 
be  president  of  feathered  Americans  and  governor- 
general  of  wilder  Canada.  Nor  is  the  premier 
position  among  the  grouse  of  this  continent  a  trifling 
honor,  for  we  have  many  species  and  good  game- 
birds  withal.  Largest  of  these  is  the  big  sage 
grouse,  which,  unfortunately,  owing  to  its  diet,  is 
not  a  delicacy  upon  the  board.  Much  better  known, 
and  as  much  better  in  every  other  way,  are  the 
pinnated  grouse  —  the  prairie  chicken  —  and  its 
varieties,  haunters  of  the  great  grassy  seas  of  the 
prairie  states  and  northwestern  Canada.  One 
variety,  the  heath  hen,  used  to  be  common  in  the 
Eastern  States,  but  it  is  now  confined  to  Martha's 
Vineyard.  That  rare  good  bird,  the  sharp-tail 
grouse  of  the  prairies,  is  by  many  preferred  to  its 
blunt-tailed  cousin,  the  "  chicken."  The  large  dusky 
grouse,  second  in  size  only  to  the  sage  grouse,  or 
cock  of  the  plains,  inhabits  the 'forested  ranges  of 
the  West  from  New  Mexico  to  Alaska,  while,  in 

284 


The  Ruffed  Grouse  and  Grouse  Shooting    285 

addition,  we  have  the  Canada  grouse,  or  spruce 
partridge,  and  the  beautiful  willow  ptarmigan  and 
its  near  relatives.  Of  course  the  discriminating  eye 
of  science  divides  and  subdivides  these  groups  into 
yet  more  races  and  varieties,  but  these  finer  distinc- 
tions need  not  be  dwelt  upon,  as  the  present  point 
of  view  is  from  the  sporting  rather  than  the  scientific 
side. 

That  so  many  men  prefer  the  "  chicken "  and 
sharp-tail  shooting  of  the  prairies  to  any  other  form 
of  sport  with  the  grouse  does  not  of  necessity  prove 
the  superiority  of  the  work  in  the  open.  I  have  no 
fault  to  find  with  the  prairie  birds,  —  too  many 
golden  memories  of  flawless  days  in  state  and 
province  yet  linger  for  that,  —  but  I  prefer  to  shoot 
ruffed  grouse.  The  prairie  shooting  is,  as  a  rule,  a 
bit  too  easy  all  round,  and  there  is  just  a  trifle  too 
much  of  sameness  about  it.  You  drive  in  solid  com- 
fort for  miles  after  fast,  wide-ranging  dogs ;  you  get 
down  to  shoot,  climb  up  again  to  ride,  and  so  it  goes 
for  as  long  as  you  please.  Of  course,  it  is  fun  no 
end,  and  certainly  no  other  shooting  affords  better 
opportunity  for  fine  work  by  the  dogs,  and  this,  to 
me,  is  its  most  attractive  feature.  Its  real  weak- 
nesses are  first,  that  it  is  too  lazy  work  to  long 
satisfy  an  energetic,  red-blooded  man ;  second,  it 
lacks  the  picturesque,  for  wild,  breezy,  and  free  as 
the  great  plains  are,  there  is  a  monotony  in  appar- 
ently limitless  leagues  of  grass,  only  broken  by 
scattered  bluffs,  in  themselves  only  pleasing  because 
of  the  slight  variety  they  impart  to  the  scene. 
Again,  if  I  may  put  it  so,  you  can  see  too  much 
—  i.e.  you  know  too  far  in  advance  precisely  what 


286  Sporting  Sketches 

is  going  to  happen.  There  are  too  few  surprises  and 
hurry  calls  for  the  exercise  of  one's  resourceful  craft. 
When  birds  are  plentiful,  it  is  just  the  thing  for  a 
man  who  has  travelled  far  for  his  sport,  and  who 
wants  all  the  actual  shooting  possible  during  a 
limited  holiday,  but  it  never  can  present  that  charm 
of  charms  —  the  infinite  variety  of  ruffed  grouse 
shooting. 

Let  not  the  reader  for  one  moment  imagine  that 
I  do  not  love  the  plains  and  the  sport  they  afford ; 
but  in  a  sportsman's  heart,  as  in  a  mother's,  there  is 
room  for  many  loves,  and  I  fear  that  if  mine  were 
searched,  there  would  be  found,  close-cuddled  near 
the  centre  and  almost  crowding  small  Boh  from  his 
place,  a  bigger  bird,  wearing  ruffs  upon  his  neck, 
and  capable  of  spreading  a  most  noble  fan-tail. 
Then  again,  the  prairie  shooting,  as  a  test  of  skill, 
which  ever  is  a  delight  to  keen  men,  lacks  some 
valuable  accessories.  The  machine-like  precision  of 
your  crack  performer  of  the  grass  lands  is  all  very 
well,  and  is  interesting  so  far  as  it  goes ;  but  it  can- 
not possibly  rival  the  rapid  work  in  heavy  cover, 
where  conditions  vary  with  every  shot.  I  have 
heard  men  boast  of  fine  shooting  at  chickens  in  tall 
corn.  That  is  all  right,  and  it  may  have  been  rather 
difficult;  but  how  would  it  have  been  with  shot- 
stopping  trees  instead  of  yielding  corn — or,  in  other 
words,  ruffed  grouse  shooting  instead  of  chicken 
shooting  ? 

To  my  mind  one  of  those  rarely  enjoyed  really 
good  days  with  ruffed  grouse  is  the  very  finest  test 
of  a  man's  skill  and  resourcefulness,  for  both  surely 
will  be  taxed  to  the  uttermost.  And  each  clean 


The  Ruffed  Grouse  and  Grouse  Shooting    287 

kill  will  be  long  remembered.  I  suppose  I  have 
killed  as  many  grouse  of  all  varieties  as  the  average 
man  who  shoots  purely  for  pleasure,  yet  the  inci- 
dents of  not  a  few  days  on  the  prairie  are  almost 
forgotten,  while  those  of  ruffed  grouse  covers  abso- 
lutely refuse  to  down.  The  remains  of  shells  of 
mine  might  be  found  in  the  woods  of  Nova  Scotia, 
New  Brunswick,  Ontario,  Quebec,  Maine,  Michigan, 
Wisconsin,  Manitoba,  Assiniboia,  Alberta,  British 
Columbia,  Vancouver  Island,  Minnesota,  the  Da- 
kotas,  Pennsylvania,  and,  of  course,  New  York,  and 
along  the  eastern  coast.  All  these  combined  would 
form  a  very  tidy  little  shooting-ground,  with  ruffed 
grouse  in  most  of  it.  Yet  I  feel  free  to  say  that, 
could  the  fired  shells  be  placed  in  one  pile,  and  the 
skulls  of  the  slain  grouse  in  a  second,  the  scenic 
effect  would  be  mighty  apt  to  suggest  a  brass- 
mounted  mountain  and  a  none  too  stately  mole-hill. 
Those  who  have  had  much  to  do  with  ruffed  grouse 
could  tell  which  would  be  the  mole-hill  without 
bothering  about  going  to  look. 

The  very  difficulty  of  the  shooting  is  one  of  its 
greatest  charms.  Beautiful,  strong,  and  swift,  the 
grouse  also  is  no  mean  tactician.  He  not  only 
chooses  the  most  difficult  ground,  but  he  is  artful 
to  a  degree  in  baffling  the  efforts  of  his  pursuer. 
When  flushed,  he  rises  with  a  sudden  hollow  boom 
of  whirring  pinions  and  makes  off  with  a  headlong, 
reckless  dash  suggestive  of  anything  rather  than 
cool  calculation.  Yet  those  who  have  closely  studied 
his  methods  know  that  no  other  bird  is  so  quick  to 
take  advantage  of  every  natural  shelter  which  can 
stop  the  flight  of  shot.  A  grouse  compelled  to  rise 


288  Sporting  Sketches 

in  a  comparatively  open  spot  will  dart  like  a  feathered 
cannon-ball  for  the  nearest  cover,  or  if  near  a  big 
tree,  he  will  whisk  behind  the  trunk,  and,  keeping 
it  between  himself  and  the  gun,  buzz  away  to  safety. 
Flushed  halfway  up  some  hillside  —  a  favorite 
haunt  —  he  will  slant  downward  at  an  electric  clip, 
offering  an  exceedingly  difficult  mark.  At  certain 
seasons  he  is  found  in  outlying  thickets,  frequently 
at  a  considerable  distance  from  the  woods  proper. 
Under  such  conditions  he  trusts  to  his  speed  as  he 
hums  away  to  the  saving  trees,  but  at  the  same  time 
he  seldom  forgets  to  take  every  advantage  of  the  lay 
of  the  cover,  scant  though  it  may  be.  His  golden 
rule  seems  to  be :  "  Start  precisely  when  the  man  is 
sure  you  won't,  go  as  fast  as  you  can  without  actually 
setting  yourself  afire,  and  get  everything  that  will 
stop  shot  between  yourself  and  the  gun." 

The  one  serious  weakness  in  the  grouse's  system 
of  defensive  tactics  is  his  habit  of  treeing  when 
flushed  by  a  dog.  This  is  an  interesting  point,  as 
it  strikingly  illustrates  the  folly  of  sticking  to  old- 
fashioned  methods  after  improvements  have  been 
introduced,  and  also  that  folly  of  all  follies  —  under- 
estimating the  ability  of  your  opponent,  ^ons  on 
aeons  ago  the  grouse  developed  that  trick  of  going 
to  a  tree  to  avoid  peril  terrestrial,  and  no  doubt  it 
considered  itself  a  very  smart  bird.  At  that  time, 
strangely  enough,  its  two  winning  cards  in  the  game 
of  life  and  death  were  taking  to  a  tree  and  leaving  a 
tree.  Being  a  bud-eater,  at  certain  seasons  the 
grouse  naturally  sought  the  trees  for  food.  Among 
the  branches  it  was  comparatively  safe  from  quadru- 
peds, although  some  of  its  foes  were  clever  climbers. 


The  Ruffed  Grouse  and  Grouse  Shooting    289 

But  there  were  others — the  birds  of  prey  —  and  to 
avoid  these  the  grouse  went  back  to  earth.  So  it 
played  its  game  of  going  to  the  trees  to  avoid  four- 
footed  foes,  and  dropping  to  the  rocks  and  brush  to 
baffle  winged  ones,  and  this  must  have  answered 
very  well  for  a  long  time,  for  the  grouse  flourished 
and  waxed  fat.  The  one  human  foe  was  then  an 
Indian,  clever  with  bow  and  arrow  and  snares ;  but 
still  the  treeing  trick  was  useful,  for  good  arrows 
were  easily  lost  if  shot  upward  among  trees,  the 
grouse  was  comparatively  small  game,  while  the  Ind- 
ian hated  to  make  arrows  as  he  hated  work  in 
general.  But  the  old-fashioned  firearm  eventually 
became  common,  and  at  once  the  grouse's  erstwhile 
strong  point  became  a  weakness. 

I  have  no  doubt  that  birds  once  wounded  in  trees 
may  have  learned  to  trust  to  their  wings  when  next 
man  appeared,  for  to-day  the  grouse,  except  in  remote 
corners,  seldom  trees  unless  the  man  be  accompanied 
by  a  dog.  To  the  birds  the  dog  is  merely  the  old, 
four-footed  peril  —  a  fox-like  creature  unable  to 
climb  —  from  which  a  tree  is  an  absolutely  safe  sanc- 
tuary. Hence,  we  see  birds  tree  above  the  dog  and 
remain  calmly  looking  down  upon  the  intruder,  and 
even  moving  upon  the  limbs  as  though  only  slightly 
interested  in  the  whole  business.  But  let  the  man 
follow  the  dog,  and  a  change  takes  place.  One  of 
two  things  happens  —  either  the  grouse  leave  the 
tree,  or  they  stretch  to  their  full  height  and  remain 
motionless.  When  so  posed,  only  an  experienced 
eye  is  apt  to  detect  them,  for  they  would  easily  pass 
for  so  many  decayed  and  broken  stubs.  Even  the 
skilled  sportsman,  who  knows  this  habit  of  the 


290  Sporting  Sketches 

grouse,  and  who  is  warned  by  the  actions  of  the  dog 
that  the  game  is  somewhere  in  the  tree  immediately 
above,  frequently  has  difficulty  in  locating  the  quarry. 
His  safest  plan  is  first  to  let  his  eye  follow  the  trunk 
to  the  top,  as  the  probability  is  that  the  game  will 
be  perched  near  the  trunk.  If  this  fails,  the  next 
thing  is  to  begin  with  the  lowest  limb  and  examine 
it  from  the  trunk  to  tip,  and  repeat  the  process  limb 
after  limb.  This,  of  course,  must  eventually  locate 
the  game,  but  the  sportsman  will  do  well  to  keep  his 
gun  ready  for  instant  action.  Strange  as  it  may 
appear,  the  bird  seems  to  know  the  instant  it  is 
observed;  then  it  is  apt  to  at  once  take  wing. 

Most  people  who  have  enjoyed  the  pleasures  of 
the  woodland  path  have  heard  the  peculiar  ventrilo- 
quial  sound,  known  as  the  drumming  of  the  ruffed 
grouse.  This  drumming,  while  most  frequently 
heard  during  the  breeding  season,  is  continued  at 
intervals  during  the  summer  and  autumn  months. 
It  is  a  low,  mufHed  beating,  yet  it  may  be  heard 
at  a  considerable  distance.  It  is  caused  by  a  pecul- 
iar beating  of  the  wings,  beginning  with  measured 
strokes  which  rapidly  run  into  each  other  —  buff — 
buff  —  buff  —  buff — bur-r-r.  It  is  a  popular  belief 
that  the  grouse  always  drums  upon  a  fallen  log  and 
produces  the  sound  by  beating  the  log  with  stiffened 
wings.  This  is  erroneous,  for  the  bird  will  drum 
upon  a  stone,  a  grassy  or  mossy  mound,  or  upon 
the  ground,  as  suits  its  fancy.  It  may  be  a  call 
to  the  female,  but  it  certainly  is  continued  long 
after  the  breeding  season.  I  have  a  notion  that 
the  motive  for  the  drumming  i§  the  same  which 
prompts  the  barnyard  cock  to  clap  his  wings  and 


The  Ruffed  Grouse  and  Grouse  Shooting    291 

crow  whenever  the  humor  strikes  him.  He  just  feels 
that  way.  In  any  event  the  sound  is  a  baffling  one, 
which  may  appear  to  come  in  turn  from  right,  left, 
front,  and  rear,  although  the  bird  has  not  changed 
position.  It  is  no  easy  task  to  stalk  the  concealed 
drummer;  yet  any  one  who  has  the  patience  to  ad- 
vance only  when  the  drum  is  sounding,  and  to 
remain  motionless  but  alert  during  the  intervals,  may 
obtain  a  view  of  the  queer  performance.  I  have  seen 
grouse  drum  many  times  and  at  varying  distances. 
Most  of  these  birds  were  upon  logs,  and  between  the 
acts  they  moved  to  and  fro  with  mincing  steps,  while 
they  appeared  to  glance  sharply  in  every  direction 
as  though  on  the  lookout  for  an  approaching  female, 
or  a  possible  foe.  When  ready  to  drum,  they  stood 
erect  with  head  thrown  back  and  the  beautiful 
tail  raised  high  and  full-spread  like  a  fan.  The 
wings  were  spread  to  their  full  extent,  and  then 
brought  sharply  against  the  sides  in  successive 
strokes,  which  increased  in  rapidity  till  the  separate 
strokes  were  blurred  together  in  a  rolling  sound 
somewhat  like  low,  distant  thunder,  or  the  rumble 
of  a  carriage  rapidly  driven  over  a  short  wooden 
bridge.  A  clever  boxer  with  soft  gloves  might  drum 
an  imitation  of  it  upon  a  punching-bag.  The  sound 
of  a  boot  against  a  foot-ball  is  not  unlike  the  peculiar 
noise  of  the  opening  beat. 

Now,  this  bears  upon  the  oft-disputed  question  of 
whether  the  bird's  wings  strike  the  log  or  the  bird's 
body.  I  say  the  body  and  the  body  only,  although 
of  course  they  may  now  and  then  accidentally  strike 
whatever  the  bird  may  be  standing  upon.  Years 
ago  we  had  a  huge  gobbler  of  half-wild  blood,  and 


292  Sporting  Sketches 

this  turkey,  as  is  common  to  his  kind,  used  to  strut 
and  show  off  during  the  breeding  season.  I  used  to 
stalk  the  old  fool  when  he  was  in  an  ecstasy  of 
strutting,  get  astride  him  and  hold  him  with  my 
arms  about  his  broad  breast.  He  seemed  to  be  full 
of  air,  like  a  huge  bladder,  and  I'd  slap  him  on  crop 
and  sides  as  fast  as  I  could  till  he'd  let  the  air  out  of 
his  mouth  with  a  rush.  Then  I'd  get  off  him  and 
leg  it  for  all  I  was  worth  to  the  nearest  cover,  for 
he  was  a  haughty  old  fowl  and  had  impressive  spurs. 
The  sound  of  my  hands  batting  him  was  very  like 
the  drumming  of  the  grouse,  and  I  suspect  that  the 
grouse,  a  distant  relative  of  the  gobbler,  fills  certain 
air-sacs  with  ozone,  and  beats  himself  with  his  wings 
to  produce  his  mufHed  drumming.  The  well-known 
clapping  of  the  wings  by  domestic  cocks  and  pigeons, 
and  the  whirring  of  pheasants,  merely  are  other  forms 
of  the  noisy  wing-action.  Those  who  have  used 
turkey-wing  brushes  about  stove,  or  hearth,  know 
how  soon  the  very  strong  feathers  wear  away,  and 
a  grouse's  much  weaker  wing  never  could  stand  the 
harsher  work  of  violent  thumping  against  log,  or 
stone.  Furthermore,  a  grouse  can  and  does  often 
drum  upon  the  ground,  an  ant-hill,  and  a  mossy 
knoll,  not  one  of  which  would  give  forth  sound  in 
response  to  a  wing-stroke.  The  very  flight  of  the 
bird  when  alarmed  proves  what  a  row  the  wings 
can  produce  working  against  air  alone,  and  this  noise 
is  under  the  bird's  control,  for  both  ruffed  grouse  and 
Bob  Whites  have  what  may  be  termed  the  silent  flush 
and  flight  for  ordinary  occasions.  Either  can  rise 
when  so  inclined  with  no  more  •noise  than  would  be 
made  by  any  other  round-winged  bird  of  equal  size. 


The  Ruffed  Grouse  and  Grouse  Shooting    293 

The  ruffed  grouse  builds  a  leaf-lined  nest  upon 
the  ground,  usually  at  the  base  of  some  tree,  or 
beside  a  log.  The  eggs  number  from  eight  to 
fourteen,  and  are  buff-colored,  which  greatly  aids 
their  concealment  where  old  leaves  are  apt  to  be 
lying  about.  The  young  are  active  and  very  clever 
at  hiding,  which  is  aided  by  the  general  brownish 
effect  of  the  downy  covering.  The  mother  is  a 
devoted  parent,  never  hesitating  to  throw  herself 
in  the  path  of  an  intruder  and,  by  simulating  lame- 
ness, endeavoring  to  draw  the  danger  toward  herself. 
This  pretty  deceit  is  one  of  the  most  touching 
sights  which  reward  the  observant  bird-lover.  The 
young  usually  remain  together  until  the  late  fall, 
and,  if  undisturbed,  perhaps  throughout  the  winter. 

The  turning  of  the  leaf  brings  the  sportsman's 
merry  season.  In  the  mellow  beauty  of  brave 
old  autumn's  ruddy  prime  comes  the  cream  of  the 
grouse  shooting,  although  the  sport  continues  until 
the  white,  sharp  days  of  the  sterner  season.  Let 
one  day  serve  as  a  picture  of  it  at  its  best. 
****** 

To  Doc's  great  astonishment,  I  am  at  last  half 
ready  when  the  trap  pulls  up  at  the  gate.  Old 
Mark,  the  great  roan  king  of  the  native  setters, 
rests  his  broad  muzzle  upon  the  dash-board  and 
with  a  thump  of  his  tail  bids  me  welcome.  At 
my  heels  is  Don,  cold-nosed,  wire-thewed,  keen  as 
a  spring.  In  fact  his  plainly  prominent  ribs  sug- 
gest that  a  spiral  spring  might  have  constituted 
his  last  meal,  but  his  eyes  are  clear  as  morning 
drops  on  grass,  and  his  lemon  head  and  snow- 
white  body  shine  like  satin. 


294  Sporting  Sketches 

"  The  '  bull '  looks  fit  this  morning,"  placidly 
remarks  Doc,  who  hates  a  pointer  worse  than  a 
blank  day. 

"  Yep,  he's  good  to-day ;  and  the  old  Newfound- 
land's able  to  ride  a  mile  or  so,  apparently,"  I 
sweetly  retort,  for  we  love  each  other,  we  two, 
and  each  has  a  cracking  good  dog  and  knows  it. 

"Shall  the  bow-legged  bull  ride — it's  five  miles, 
you  know  ? "  continues  Doc,  insinuatingly. 

"  There's  no  ambulance  call  in  my  kennel ! "  I 
snap  back. 

"  Might  be  handy  before  night,"  sighs  Doc,  and 
we  both  laugh  as  I  climb  up. 

As  we  bowl  along  for  mile  after  mile,  Don's  nose 
is  within  an  inch  of  the  horse's  heels.  There  is  no 
dust ;  he  loves  to  travel  so,  and  seldom  indeed  has 
he  to  break  from  his  own  peculiarly  rapid  trot. 
Under  the  trap  he  is  safe  from  attacks  by  farm 
dogs,  which,  if  they  try  to  dash  in  from  the  side, 
merely  take  a  tour  with  a  wheel  or  get  run  over. 
Woe  be  unto  the  brute  determined  enough  to 
attempt  a  rear  raid!  Don,  when  put  to  it,  would 
sooner  fight  than  eat,  and  he  is  always  in  fine  con- 
dition. Five  miles  from  home  we  reach  the  first  of 
the  chosen  cover.  Five  minutes  later  the  nag  is 
comfortable  in  an  old  log  shed,  and  we  are  ready 
for  business. 

It  is  a  good  ruffed  grouse  country.  Leaving  the 
well-cultivated  fields  behind,  we  enter  an  irregular 
belt  of  clearing  where  old  brush  piles  and  stumps 
are  overhung  with  a  snarl  of  briers  and  slim  second 
growths.  Back  of  this  the  unbroken  forest  spreads 
for  miles,  while  near  its  edge  winds  the  broad  bed 


Tbe  Ruffed  Grouse  and  Grouse  Shooting    295 

of  an  almost  dried-up  creek.  This  is  a  confusion 
of  comparatively  low  cover.  The  larger  trees  are 
not  too  close  together,  but  quick,  snappy  work 
must  be  the  order  in  most  of  the  brush.  We 
decide  to  work  along  the  face  of  the  woods  until 
the  comparative  open  has  been  thoroughly  beaten. 
Any  grouse  found  in  outlying  clumps  will  surely 
dash  for  the  woods,  and  our  method  means  that 
most  chances  will  be  side  shots,  when  the  trick 
of  dodging  behind  trees  will  avail  but  little.  The 
dogs  are  given  the  word  and  we  move  forward  about 
forty  yards  apart.  Now  comes  a  beautiful  exhibi- 
tion of  dog  work.  The  big  setter,  the  best  dog 
on  ruffed  grouse  in  the  county,  knows  exactly 
what  is  required  of  him ;  the  pointer,  the  best 
quail  dog  on  a  grouse  day  that  ever  I  saw,  knows 
his  mighty  rival  too  well  to  attempt  any  liberties. 
So  instead  of  sailing  away  at  top  speed  and  split- 
ting two-hundred-yard  tacks,  they  merely  canter, 
and  while  scorning  to  follow  each  other,  each  keeps 
close  watch  of  the  other's  movements.  Suddenly 
the  pointer  stops  in  the  middle  of  a  stride,  and  like 
his  shadow,  the  great  roan  loses  motion.  My  whistle, 
held  pipe-fashion,  purrs  a  low  warning  (the  voice 
alarms  grouse),  and  the  dogs  are  as  steady  as  trees. 
In  a  moment  a  white  and  gray  ball  goes  bouncing 
toward  a  brush  heap,  and  the  pointer's  tense  mus- 
cles slacken.  It  is  too  early  in  the  day  for  fur,  and 
Don  knows  that  a  something  which  stingeth  like 
an  adder  lurks  in  my  pocket.  So  he  gives  a  yearn- 
ing look  at  the  vanishing  cottontail,  and  the  quest 
continues. 

A  sudden  bursting  roar  of  wings,  a  clash  of  twigs, 


296  Sporting  Sketches 

a  swirl  of  painted  leaves,  and  a  brown  shell  is  bor- 
ing a  hole  through  sunlit  space.  He  is  a  beautiful 
picture  as  he  crosses  with  outstretched  neck  lead- 
ing an  electric  fan  of  wings.  Not  caring  to  stand 
idly  while  a  grand  grouse  plucked  itself,  or  cut 
down  a  tree  through  having  lost  control  of  its 
brake,  I  snapped  the  twelve  into  position  and 
whirled  the  tapered  tubes  until  they  swung  two 
feet  ahead  of  the  flattened  ruffs.  It  was  a  glorious 
picture,  yet  a  kaleidoscopic  effect,  for  as  my  finger 
pressed  the  trigger,  the  feathered  fan  stopped  buzz- 
ing, the  beautiful  head  went  up,  and  I  heard  the 
spiteful  "  squinge "  of  modern  powder  a  second 
before  my  shoulder  felt  the  jar  of  my  own  weapon. 
Both  dogs  went  down,  and  through  the  brush  came 
Doc.  His  blue  eye  sparkled,  and  it  asked  a  question 
as  plainly  as  words  could  have  done.  I  felt  like 
lying,  for  it  was  a  very  close  thing,  but  sportsman- 
ship is  mighty. 

"  Aprez  vous  /"  I  sadly  muttered  in  about  all  the 
language  of  the  courts  I  am  aware  of,  and  then  I 
hustled  in  a  second  barrel  of  —  "  You-red-headed-fool- 
if-you-crossfire-me-again-ril-fill-you-full-of-shot !  " 

"  Gad  !  he's  a  beaut ! "  lisped  Doc,  as  he  smoothed 
the  lovely  plumage.  "  And  he's  fat,  too!  "  he  con- 
tinued, as  he  slid  what  had  been  within  one  inch  of 
being  mine  into  his  pocket.  Then  we  looked  at 
each  other  and  grinned,  for  each  knew  how  slim  had 
been  his  chance. 

The  dogs  soon  got  to  work  again,  and  a  memo- 
rable bit  of  sport  followed.  Dame  Fortune  was  in 
a  generous  mood.  Within  five  -minutes  the  white 
dog  had  evened  matters  by  pinning  a  big  cock 


The  Ruffed  Grouse  and  Grouse  Shooting    297 

grouse  in  the  centre  of  an  almost  open  space.  Doc 
thought  it  was  a  rabbit,  and  sent  me  over.  There 
was  a  clump  of  dog-roses,  and  while  I  was  hoping  a 
big  grouse  might  chance  to  be  there,  the  very  bird 
roared  up  and  was  clean  killed.  Some  way,  Doc's 
mirth  this  time  was  not  what  might  be  termed 
noisy. 

The  next  notable  event  was  the  pitching  of  a 
missed  bird  into  an  outlying  thicket  on  my  side  of 
the  beat.  I  followed  the  bird  and  killed  it.  At 
the  report  a  second  rose,  which  also  was  killed ; 
then  another  and  another  whizzed  away  before  I 
could  reload.  As  Doc  rushed  into  the  open,  still 
another  bird  roared  up  and  collapsed.  Then  the 
dogs  drew  cautiously  on ;  something  went  out  one 
side,  while  something  else  fluttered  near  me.  We 
fired  almost  together,  and  as  I  took  a  fat  woodcock 
from  Mark,  Doc  shouted  —  "  I've  got  your  rabbit 
—  do  you  want  him  ?  " 

When  he  saw  the  cock,  we  ceased  to  be  friends 
and  both  tramped  into  the  cover  without  a  word. 
Soon  both  barrels  told  that  Doc  was  busy,  and  the 
next  moment  a  bullet-headed  beauty  came  twitter- 
ing past  me,  but  concluded  to  bide  a  wee.  For  a 
while,  it  looked  like  that  rare,  highly  prized  sport, 
mixed  cock  and  grouse  shooting,  but  only  one  more 
lons:bill  was  found. 

O 

The  next  move  was  to  the  bed  of  the  creek,  and 
we  advanced  one  on  either  side,  the  dogs  working 
between.  Prettier  ground  could  not  have  been 
chosen.  The  course  of  the  creek's  bed  was  like  a 
winding  corridor  walled  by  sturdy  trees,  and  no 
matter  which  direction  birds  took,  one  gun  was 


298  Sporting  Sketches 

certain  to  have  a  clear  chance.  The  dogs  toiled 
slowly  through  the  tangled  stuff,  while  we  followed 
abreast.  Every  now  and  then  would  come  the  im- 
pressive pause  of  one  or  other  dog,  almost  immedi- 
ately followed  by  the  hollow  thunder  of  strong  wings 
and  the  rush  of  a  swift  brown  body.  Usually  one 
barrel,  sometimes  two,  did  the  trick.  Once  a  bird 
boomed  away  with  four  charges  of  shot  in  vain  pur- 
suit. The  incident  caused  a  hearty  laugh  and  a 
lively  exchange  of  that  sort  of  talk  which  might  be 
dangerous  among  dry  leaves.  But  little  things  of 
that  sort  seldom  are  hotter  than  tabasco.  In  time 
the  end  of  the  cover  was  reached  and  we  pulled  up 
for  a  rest  and  a  bite.  Our  four-footed  friends,  too, 
are  quite  willing  to  roll  and  stretch  on  the  soft  fall 
grass.  The  big  roan  showed  no  trace  of  the  rather 
heavy  campaign,  but  the  white  fellow's  rat-tail  was 
crimson  for  fully  four  inches  and  his  flanks  were 
streaked  with  plenty  of  that  same  red  badge  of 
courage. 

To  my  mind,  one  of  the  happiest  periods  of  a 
good  day's  sport  is  when  the  pipes  are  drawing  well 
after  the  midday  snack.  The  dogs  have  had  their 
crusts  and  stretch  at  ease  in  the  cool  grass.  The 
coats  with  bulging  pockets  hang  near  by.  There  is 
more  choice  ground  to  be  beaten  and  plenty  of 
daylight  for  the  work,  and  even  a  blank  afternoon 
cannot  spoil  the  day.  And  then  the  handling  and 
smoothing  of  the  beautiful  prizes  so  fairly  earned  by 
skill  and  manly,  sportsmanlike  methods.  Every  bird 
has  had  a  fair  chance  and  has  been  cut  down  as 
mercifully  as  possible.  To  lie  upon  sweet  grass  at 
the  fringe  of  a  noble  wood  with  a  sun-kissed  sea  of 


Tbe  Ruffed  Grouse  and  Grouse  Shooting    299 

stubble  spreading  far  before  is  no  great  hardship. 
The  view  is  ringed  with  fire  where  maples  and  nut 
trees  mass  their  glowing ;  the  fence  lines,  where  the 
creepers,  briers,  and  sumachs  are,  show  like  rivulets 
of  flame  flowing  down  easy  slopes,  and  over  all  the 
season's  lovely  haze,  the  smoke  of  the  earth's  burnt- 
offering  for  a  bounteous  field. 

Doc  knocks  the  ashes  from  his  pipe,  and  at  the 
sound  the  rested  dogs  spring  up  ready  for  more 
work. 

Quick  echoes  wake  within  the  woods,  the  cut 
leaves  drift,  the  dogs  toil  on  while  shadows  creep. 
From  huge  halted  billows  of  forest  we  wade  through 
the  soundless  surf  of  lesser  growths  and  reach  the 
open.  Far  away  the  sun's  failing  red  dims  like  a 
coal  amid  misty  ashes. 

The  horse  is  glad  to  see  us.  Food  and  water 
a-plenty  he  has  had,  but  his  own  stable  is  home,  and 
he  wants  to  get  there.  This  time  both  dogs  ride. 
Both  have  worked  nobly  and  honors  are  easy.  Few 
words  are  spoken.  The  quick  hoofs  drum  the  white 
road  in  regular  cadence.  Fence,  field,  and  orchard 
glide  past  in  dimming  procession,  and  twin  puffs  of 
fragrant  smoke  drift  rearward  to  mingle  with  the 
mist,  the  fruity  odors,  and  the  sweetness  of  it  all. 


OUAIPTEIK 

>JJIS 


WHEN  one  of  those  ordinary  little  wretches,  a 
human  baby,  is  born,  it  may  be  interesting  to  two, 
four,  six,  or  even  a  few  more  people  ;  but,  fairly  con- 
sidered, it  doesn't  amount  to  very  much.  A  choice 
specimen  might  weigh  eight  or  nine  pounds,  but  the 
material  is  rather  mushy,  and  of  questionable  value. 
It  isn't  quite  so  wrinkled  as  a  decent  puppy,  nor  so 
pink  as  a  new-born  rabbit,  nor  so  agile  as  a  young 
mud-turtle  when  turned  upon  its  back.  In  fact, 
only  strongly  prejudiced  folk  can  see  anything  in  it. 
While  the  ordinary  babe  may  ripen  into  a  President, 
or  some  old  thing  like  that,  it  requires  a  heap  of 
time  and  teaching  before  it  can  learn  its  own  name, 
let  alone  its  politics  and  their  possibilities. 

Young  Robert  White,  however,  was  a  marked  ex- 
ception. An  American,  the  first  act  of  his  little  life 
was  a  blow  for  freedom,  for  when  he  came  to  him- 
self, he  was  in  prison.  He  never  knew  it,  but  he 
had  been  shut  up  for  nearly  thirty  days,  and  that  for 
no  crime.  For  all  we  know  to  the  contrary,  he  may 
have  chafed  under  the  yolk,  but  in  any  event  he 
gradually  overcame  that  difficulty,  and  decided  to 
break  jail.  As  the  cell  in  which  he  was  confined 
was  so  small  as  to  effectually  prevent  free  move- 
ment, and  one  part  of  the  wall  jwas  as  easy  as  an- 
other, he  attacked  that  section  which  lay  directly 

300 


Robert  White,  Jr.  301 

before  his  nose.  The  said  nose  was  equipped  with 
a  hard  little  point,  and  he  pushed  it  against  the  wall, 
and  presently  first  cracked  and  then  shattered  a  tiny 
section,  through  which  at  once  poured  his  first 
direct  supply  of  air.  It  was  gratefully  warm  and 
wondrously  invigorating. 

A  few  moments  after  Robert  had  made  his  first 
breach  in  his  prison  wall,  his  instinct  prompted  him 
to  twist  a  little  to  one  side  and  repeat  his  bill-push- 
ing. He  did  this  again  and  again,  sometimes 
hurriedly,  but  with  occasional  long  pauses,  until  a 
regular  line  of  small  fractures  extended  almost 
around  the  wall.  Then  he  struggled  desperately, 
and  lo !  the  dome  above  his  head  quivered,  yielded, 
and  fell  away,  and  the  first  kicks  of  his  untried  little 
legs  caused  him  to  tumble  sprawling  into  warm 
darkness.  He  was  moist,  almost  naked,  and  trem- 
blingly weak,  but  he  was  old  Robert  White's  son 
now,  with  no  further  use  for  a  shell.  That  there 
were  other  shells  —  long  and  round  and  brass-ended, 
he  did  not  know,  and  not  knowing,  did  not  care. 

It  was  pitch  dark,  yet  amazingly  comfortable, 
where  he  lay  thrilling  with  new  life.  Pressing  upon 
him  was  a  something  deliciously  soft  and  soothing. 
The  touch  of  it  seemed  to  lend  strength  as  the 
minutes  passed ;  so  he  gratefully  rubbed  his  head 
against  it,  and  resolved  to  maintain  his  present  posi- 
tion at  all  hazards.  He  did  not  know  why  he 
should  do  so,  yet  something  told  him  to  remain  for 
the  time  exactly  where  he  was  and  to  resist  any- 
thing which  tried  to  move  him.  And  he  did  resist, 
and  presently  he  had  need  to,  for  damp,  warm  things 
began  to  press  against  him  from  all  directions.  He 


302  Sporting  Sketches 

did  not  object  to  them  in  the  least  so  long  as  they 
did  not  force  him  to  shift  his  position.  When  they 
crowded  too  closely,  he  merely  braced  and  pushed 
with  all  his  little  might,  yet  ever  good-naturedly, 
for  the  whole  thing  was  snugly  warm  and  drowsily 
pleasant. 

He  did  not  know  it,  but  close  around  him  lay  no 
less  than  eight  small  brothers  and  an  even  half- 
dozen  of  equally  small  sisters,  and  all  so  exactly 
alike  that  only  their  proudly  happy  mother  could 
tell  one  from  the  other.  But  she  knew  every  one  of 
them,  and  in  some  mysterious  way  her  wonderful 
mother-love  was  divided  into  fifteen  exactly  even 
shares.  The  other  fourteen  youngsters  felt  precisely 
as  did  Robert,  so  when  his  damp  coat  presently  dried 
and  fuzzed  out  all  over  him  to  form  a  beautiful  fur- 
like  wrap  of  rich  chestnut  and  cream,  their  small 
covers  had  done  the  same. 

This  state  of  affairs  continued  for  some  hours,  in 
fact  till  the  burning  sun  had  thoroughly  dried  even 
the  tangled  lower  growths.  Mother  White's  beady 
eyes  knew  how  to  read  the  signs  that  told  when  the 
last  drop  of  dew  had  evaporated,  and  at  the  proper 
moment  the  feathery  tent  was  struck,  and  she  daintily 
stepped  forward,  leaving  the  silky  mat  of  crowding 
youngsters  for  the  first  time  in  their  lives  entirely 
uncovered.  It  is  quite  safe  to  say  that  not  one  of 
the  lot  was  either  astonished  or  dismayed  by  the 
sudden  exposure.  It  is  all  very  fine  for  a  few  pecul- 
iarly gifted,  or  otherwise,  folk  to  minutely  describe 
the  joys,  sorrows,  hopes,  fears,  and  aspirations  of 
young  wild  things,  but  the  important  fact  remains 
that  at  least  one-half  of  such  statements  is  either 


Robert  White,  Jr.  303 

sheer  tommy-rot  or  mere  guesswork.  While  it  is 
quite  true  that  much  has  been  learned,  as  more  re- 
mains to  be  learned,  from  close  observation,  it  also 
is  true  that  even  the  most  generously  endowed  of 
our  writers  have  not  yet  quite  mastered  the  art  of 
turning  themselves  into  winged  or  four-footed  crea- 
tures at  will.  Until  they  have  fully  mastered  that 
art,  which  may  mean  some  slight  delay,  the  average, 
not  especially  gifted  reader  may  be  wise  in  liberally 
salting  his  brain-foods. 

Our  young  Robert,  possibly  because  he  was  an 
exception  to  the  general  rule,  did  not  at  once  enter 
upon  an  arduous  course  of  study  like  the  brainy 
birdlings  that  bloom  in  books.  Instead,  he  just 
toddled  along  with  the  crowd,  dogging  his  mother's 
steps  until  she  paused  and  began  to  kick  the  dust 
about  with  her  feet.  Naturally  enough,  there  had 
been  no  previous  rehearsals  of  this  interesting  per- 
formance, nor  had  it  been  at  all  discussed ;  yet  the 
moment  he  saw  her,  as  it  were,  "  at  the  bat,"  he 
elected  himself  "  short  stop,"  and  prepared  to  play 
an  errorless  game.  When  a  few  moments  later  a 
spotless  white  object  came  trundling  his  way,  he 
gathered  it  in  with  a  speed  and  accuracy  worthy  of 
a  pennant.  It  was  an  ant's  egg.  There  were  other 
foods  later  on,  and  when  he  spied  something  new,  he 
didn't  have  to  run  to  his  mother  and  ask  if  the  thing 
was  good  to  eat.  His  keen  eyes  merely  flashed 
upon  it,  decided  its  value,  and  he  promptly  pounced 
upon  or  passed  by  as  his  curious  instinct  directed. 

For  days  the  youngsters  all  had  a  royal  time,  for 
life  was  one  grand,  sweet  feed,  sleep,  and  sun  bath. 
Like  the  others,  Robert  grew  rapidly,  and  fairy  fans 


304  Sporting  Sketches 

of  wings  replaced  the  hairy  stumps  he  had  first 
worn.  He  could  run  with  astonishing  speed,  and 
did  not  hesitate  to  follow  an  insect  —  skip  —  skip  — 
skip,  though  the  chase  led  him  yards  from  his 
mother.  As  yet  no  startling  adventure  had  befallen 
him,  for  his  brief  experience  had  been  one  of  peace 
and  plenty;  but  mischief  was  brewing.  It  came 
without  warning,  and  just  how  it  happened  he  never 
knew.  He  had  spied  an  ant  crossing  a  long,  narrow 
strip  of  dusty,  worn  ground,  and  he  dashed  with 
electric  speed  after  the  prize.  The  ant  trotted  into 
a  wee  hole,  around  which  lay  a  ring  of  sand  grains, 
and  Robert  at  once  got  busy.  Three  kicks  of  his 
nimble  feet  scattered  the  sand  in  as  many  directions, 
and  instantly  his  stout  little  bill  was  pickaxing  at 
the  hole.  He  knew  that  red  ants  and  white  eggs 
lay  just  below,  and  so  eager  in  his  work  was  he  that 
he  never  looked  up  till  he  felt  the  earth  tremble 
under  a  mighty  measured  thud-thudding,  the  like  of 
which  he  never  had  heard. 

Out  of  the  corner  of  an  eye  he  caught  a  glimpse 
of  an  awful  shape  which  towered  high  in  air,  and 
instantly  his  bent  legs  straightened  and  he  shot 
head-first  for  the  grass,  which  he  failed  to  reach  by 
a  few  inches.  He  fell  like  a  frog  all  stretched  out  on 
the  bare  dust,  but  once  there  he  remained  as  motion- 
less as  a  dead  leaf.  As  he  lay,  he  heard  his  mother 
utter  what  was  to  him  a  new  cry  and  it  said  "  hide," 
but  he  already  had  done  his  best  in  that  direction,  and 
without  her  telling  he  knew  the  slightest  motion 
would  be  perilous.  His  little  heart  was  beating 
over-fast,  and  his  eyes  were  wikl  with  fear,  but  he 
never  attempted  to  straighten  a  toe  that  was  uncom- 


Robert  Wbite,  Jr.  305 

fortably  bent.  The  monster  thudded  almost  upon 
him,  then  halted  and  emitted  a  thunderous  rum- 
bling, the  sound  of  which  almost  scared  Robert  to 
death. 

To  our  ears  that  sound  merely  would  have  meant 
—  "I  seen  ye  skip,  ye  little  cuss,  and  I  see  ye  a-lyin' 
there.  I  must  be  mighty  keerful  where  I  step,  for 
there's  a  sight  o'  ye  round  here  an'  I  wouldn't  hurt 
one  o'  ye  fur  a  price," — for  the  towering  monster,  or 
what  to  Robert  appeared  that  way,  was  good  Farmer 
Brown,  owner  of  two  hundred  acres  thereabouts. 
He  passed  along  smiling  at  outstretched  Robert, 
who  never  even  quivered  as  minute  after  minute 
passed  away.  Robert  was  anything  but  comfort- 
able, yet  in  spite  of  his  accidentally  awkward  position 
he  never  stirred  till  his  mother's  voice  uttered  a 
peculiar  low  twitter.  At  the  sound  he  sprang  to 
his  feet  and  raced  to  her  in  time  to  see  the  others 
trooping  in  from  various  directions.  Not  one  was 
missing  as  she  promptly  discovered,  and  after  she 
had  led  them  a  few  yards  from  the  path  all  resumed 
their  tireless  quest  for  insect  food.  The  dread  of  the 
monster  vanished  with  his  disappearance,  for  young 
wild  things  are  blessed  with  exceedingly  short  mem- 
ories and  never  bother  about  a  peril  that  has  passed. 
Once  assured,  —  and  the  mother's  voice  is  an  assur- 
ance beyond  question,  —  they  are  as  unconcerned 
as  though  the  thing  had  never  happened.  Were  it 
not  for  this  their  little  lives  would  be  an  agony  of 
terror,  a  thing  unknown  in  Nature's  beautiful  plan. 

Long,  lazy  days  passed  in  pleasant  succession,  and 
Robert  grew  fat  and  rather  long-legged.  His  erst- 
while pretty,  downy  coat  was  thin  and  pale  and 


306  Sporting  Sketches 

bristling  with  stubby  feathers,  and  his  wings  had 
become  goodly  mottled  fans  ample  for  the  covering 
of  his  almost  bare  sides.  He  could  run  with  aston- 
ishing speed,  but  beyond  an  occasional  fluttering  to 
ease  his  descent  from  some  log  or  rail  upon  which 
he  had  climbed,  he  had  not  yet  used  his  wings. 
But  there  had  to  be  a  first  time,  and  when  it  came, 
it  was  a  genuine  surprise.  In  a  fence  corner  of  the 
favorite  field  grew  a  lot  of  briers,  and  close  beside 
them,  yet  fully  exposed  to  the  sun,  was  a  small  patch 
of  bare,  sandy  soil.  Mother  White  knew  all  about 
this  spot,  and  when  one  day  she  felt  the  need  of  a 
regular  dusting,  she  led  the  way  to  it.  Squat- 
ting on  the  sand,  she  raised  her  plumage  almost 
on  end,  pecked  a  few  times,  scratched  a  little  with 
her  feet,  then  performed  a  peculiar  scraping  with  her 
wings,  which  presently  raised  a  small  cloud  of  dust 
and  sent  grains  of  sand  showering  through  her 
loosened  plumage. 

Robert  and  the  rest  scarcely  looked  at  her,  but 
each  squatted  in  a  handy  place  and  set  to  work 
precisely  as  she  had  done.  Soon  a  small  cloud  of 
dust  almost  obscured  them.  Their  dust  bath  was 
as  cleansing  and  enjoyable  as  a  plunge  into  a  swim- 
min'-hole,  and  for  an  hour  they  lazied,  dust  to  the 
eyes.  So  dreamily  content  were  they  that  none 
noticed  an  approaching  thud-thud,  the  very  same 
that  had  previously  scared  them.  Suddenly  there 
was  a  tremendous  crash  and  a  horrible  swaying  of 
briers.  Without  stopping  to  think  Robert  sprang 
into  the  air  and  made  his  wings  fairly  hum,  at  the 
same  time  and  for  the  first  time  uttering  a  shrill 
"  chick-er-ick-tick "  of  terror.  He  had  no  time  to 


Robert  White,  jr.  307 

think  of  direction,  but  buzzed  away  for  twenty  yards 
as  he  happened  to  be  pointed,  then  sank  panting 
into  some  green  stuff,  where  he  at  once  crouched. 

For  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  was  entirely  alone. 
The  novel  exertion  and  the  scare  combined  made 
his  heart  thump,  and  in  dread  of  he  knew  not  what 
he  pressed  his  scanty  plumage  close  and  waited  as 
motionless  as  a  clod.  Where  his  mother  had  gone 
he  could  not  even  guess.  He  had  heard  the  roar  of 
her  wings,  and  dimly  seen  the  others  leap  like  big 
grasshoppers  all  about  him,  and  that  ended  his 
knowledge  of  the  disaster.  He  knew  he  had  made 
his  first  flight,  and  he  wished  he  hadn't,  for  he  was 
lost  and  scared ;  yet  something  told  him  to  sit  tight 
and  wait.  Meanwhile  among  the  briers  arose  Farmer 
Brown,  and  he  said : "  Durn  that  rotten  rail  anyhow ! 
Here  I've  gone  an'  skinned  my  arm  fur  six  inches 
an'  fell  atop  of  my  little  quails  an'  most  skeered  'em 
to  death,  I  reckon  !  The  young  cusses  were  takin'  a 
dustin',  fur  here's  their  little  wallows  an'  shed  feath- 
ers, which  proves  they're  gettin'  quite  sizable." 

To  Robert  that  wait  seemed  dreadfully  long ;  in 
reality  it  did  not  exceed  fifteen  minutes ;  but  at  last 
came  his  release.  A  plaintive  whistle,  vibrant  with 
tender  anxiety,  sounded  from  a  near-by  thicket.  "  Ka- 
loi-hee !  Ka-loi-hee !  Ka-loi-te  /  "  it  said,  and  as 
it  ended  Robert  rose  to  his  feet  and  shook  himself. 
Because  he  never  had  been  "  scattered  "  before,  he 
never  had  heard  a  similar  sound ;  yet  he  knew  his 
mother's  voice  and  that  it  meant  he  should  join  her. 
He  wasn't  quite  sure  of  the  direction,  so  for  a  mo- 
ment he  waited  irresolutely.  Again  rose  the  rally- 
ing call,  louder  and  clearer,  and  his  keen  ears  told 


308  Sporting  Sketches 

him  the  exact  line  to  follow.  Instantly  he  straight- 
ened up,  and  for  the  first  time  attempted  the  answer- 
ing cry.  It  wasn't  much  of  a  cry  —  rather  feeble 
and  a  bit  broken-reedy,  and  suggestive  of  a  whining 
"  Thankee-than-kee ! "  but  it  was  the  best  he  was 
capable  of.  Then  he  ran  like  a  mouse  going  through 
grass. 

Every  now  and  then  he  stopped  to  call  and  re- 
ceive instructions,  and  from  various  places  he  could 
hear  the  others  like  himself  steering  by  signal. 
When  finally  "  Ka-loi-hee  !  "  again  sounded,  Robert 
squeaked  hasty  acknowledgments  and  sped  straight 
as  a  bullet  to  where  his  mother  stood.  Half-a-dozen 
of  the  others  were  with  her,  and  presently  the  rest 
came  sprinting  from  various  directions.  In  her  own 
way  she  counted  them,  and  the  moment  the  tally 
was  complete  all  trace  of  anxiety  left  her,  and  she 
cautiously  led  the  way  to  some  secluded  foraging- 
ground. 

Weeks  passed  and  the  young  Whites,  with  one 
exception,  throve  amazingly.  Robert  himself  was 
nearly  as  large  as  his  mother.  His  washy-looking, 
mottled  suit  had  fallen  from  him  scrap  by  scrap 
among  briers,  grass,  and  at  the  dusting-place ;  the 
leaden  gray  of  his  throat  had  changed  to  almost  pure 
white ;  in  fact,  in  his  mother's  eyes,  he  was  painfully 
like  his  father —  that  mysterious  father  whom  he 
never  had  seen,  that  is,  so  far  as  he  knew. 

In  time  the  conditions  changed.  A  great  storm 
arose ;  there  was  a  tremendous  clatter  in  the  air  and 
Farmer  Brown  and  other  monsters  raged  and  shouted 
in  the  fields  from  morn  till  dusk.  Then  the  awful 
disturbance  passed,  but  it  had  wrought  ruin  far  as 


Robert  Wbite,  Jr.  309 

eye  could  see,  except  in  two  directions.  The  bit  of 
woodland,  to  which  the  terrified  Whites  had  fled  for 
shelter,  yet  remained,  but  the  big  field  lay  bare  and 
bristly  with  the  short,  broken  stems  over  which  the 
storm  had  raged.  Of  all  the  glorious  cover  there 
was  not  a  vestige  with  the  exception  of  some  thin 
strips  along  the  fences.  Mother  White  gazed  across 
the  waste  in  amazement.  Verily  the  late  Happy 
Hunting  Grounds  had  been  transformed  into  the 
other  place,  and  she  scarce  knew  what  to  do.  For 
that  day  the  lot  cowered  in  the  fence  corner,  picking 
a  few  seeds  in  a  half-hearted  sort  of  way,  but  not 
daring  to  leave  the  shelter,  although  plenty  of 
scattered  grain  was  plainly  visible.  As  often  hap- 
pens in  other  families,  the  one  weakling  was  the 
hungriest  and  most  reckless.  He  finally  ventured 
into  the  stubble  and  snatched  grain  after  grain,  the 
quest  leading  him  farther  and  farther  from  the  fence. 
The  others  watched  enviously,  yet  heedful  of  their 
mother's  continued  warnings.  At  last  the  forager 
straightened  up  to  force  down  one  more  grain  into 
his  jammed  gullet.  His  crop  stood  out  hard  and 
round ;  he  was  wheat  to  his  mandibles,  and  the  sight 
of  him  made  the  others  prepare  for  a  united  raid. 

Then  an  awful  thing  happened.  Some  yards  from 
his  position,  the  top  of  a  big  gray  clod  showed  just 
above  the  stubble.  Such  clods  are  common  in  grain 
fields  —  the  plough  turns  up  a  moist  chunk  which 
sometimes  hardens  like  a  brick  and  so  remains 
till  the  grain  is  cut.  But  there  are  few  clods  exactly 
like  the  one  in  question.  Before  the  eyes  of  the 
amazed  Whites  it  presently  rolled  forward  a  little 
—  just  a  little,  but  it  really  rolled.  Mother  White 


310  Sporting  Sketches 

saw  it,  but  before  she  could  shrill  her  warning  call, 
the  clod  flashed  through  the  air,  for  an  instant  seem- 
ing like  a  brindled  rabbit,  then  landed  squarely  on 
top  of  the  forager.  The  horrified  watchers  stole  in 
haste  toward  the  wood.  At  its  edge  Mother  White 
hopped  upon  a  log  and  gazed  back  at  the  stubble. 
A  gray  thing  with  a  dead  shape  hanging  from  its 
mouth  was  trotting  far  away.  Mother  White  stood 
on  her  tip-toes  to  watch  that  dreaded  thing,  and  as 
she  gazed  she  noticed  something  else.  In  the  dis- 
tance beyond  the  stubble  rose  a  wall  of  green  which 
she  knew  to  be  excellent  cover.  It  was  corn,  acres 
upon  acres  of  cool,  tangled  foliage,  beneath  which 
the  family  could  run  and  dust  in  safety,  and  from 
which  they  could  forage  outward  for  seeds  and 
other  foods.  The  sole  difficulty  lay  in  the  crossing 
of  the  stubble.  That  was  dangerous,  she  knew ;  but 
something  had  to  be  done,  so  she  resolved  to  attempt 
the  trip. 

With  the  lot  close  at  her  heels  she  started  along 
the  fence  till  she  marked  a  long,  narrow  depression 
which  seemed  to  cross  the  stubble.  Into  this  she 
turned,  at  first  stealthily  creeping,  then  running  at 
half  speed.  It  was  a  long  route,  and  when  she  finally 
halted  and  stood  erect  to  see  if  they  were  not  almost 
there,  she  was  startled  to  discover  that  one-third  of 
the  distance  had  yet  to  be  traversed.  Her  eyes  had 
misjudged  the  task,  for  the  dwellers  in  the  cover  are 
not  accustomed  to  taking  very  long  looks  and  seldom 
bother  about  anything  more  than  fifty  yards  away, 
which  accounts  for  the  egregious  blunders  they  fre- 
quently make  when  they  happen  to  get  lost  and 
straggle  into  a  town.  Far  away  she  saw  a  dark 


Robert  IVMe,  jr.  311 

thing  drifting  in  the  air,  and  realizing  that  there 
was  no  secure  cover  nearer  than  the  corn,  she  fairly 
sprinted  for  that  shelter.  As  she  sped  her  terror  in- 
creased till  she  could  wait  no  longer,  and  with  a 
warning  cry  she  took  wing.  The  others  at  once 
sprang  into  the  air  and  darted  after  her.  Their 
rising  was  almost  noiseless  in  marked  contrast  with 
the  sounding  whir  of  a  flush  before  a  man  or  dog. 
But  this  time  they  had  a  running  start  and  were  not 
suddenly  bounced  from  a  crouching  attitude. 

Straight  before  them  lay  the  corn,  and  they  whizzed 
toward  it  in  straggling  order.  Fast  as  she  was  going, 
Mother  White  saw  the  wheeling  thing  she  had  pre- 
viously marked  suddenly  flash  forward  at  marvellous 
speed.  Sorely  frightened  though  she  was,  her 
mother-love  prompted  a  sharp  cry  of  warning.  Those 
nearest  heard  and  understood,  and  instead  of  sailing 
for  the  last  few  yards,  they  buzzed  madly  until  they 
struck  the  dense  growth  and  plunged  through  it  like 
so  many  hurled  stones.  All  but  one.  A  drift  of 
floating  feathers,  a  broad-winged,  gray  form  that 
flapped  away  in  burdened  flight,  proved  that  Accipi- 
ter  velox  was  well  named,  and  had  taken  the  toll 
which  folk  of  the  cover  must  pay  when  they  cross 
their  Bridge  of  Sighs  —  the  broad  open. 

Because  there  is  none  of  that  which  we  call  lasting 
grief  among  the  Whites,  they  speedily  forgot  their 
troubles.  In  the  corn  they  were  safe,  and  for  weeks 
things  were  delightfully  pleasant.  Robert  and  his 
brothers  waxed  stout  and  strong,  as  did  their  sisters. 
The  distinguishing  marks,  the  white  throats  of  the 
one  and  the  soft  buff  of  the  other,  were  alike  perfect, 
and  the  lot  thought  nothing  of  long  tramps  through 


Sporting  Sketches 

the  now  weedy  stubble,  or  whizzing  flights  back  to 
cover.  The  corn  had  lost  much  of  its  green,  the 
trees  were  turning  to  gold  and  crimson,  but  food 
was  almost  too  easy  to  find.  The  night  air  had 
grown  a  trifle  chilly,  but  the  Whites  were  stronger 
and  wiser  now ;  so  at  dusk  they  sought  the  same  old 
sleeping-spot  —  a  little  patch  of  snug  grass  and  cat- 
briers  the  plough  had  avoided  because  of  some  big 
roots  which  lingered  there.  Robert  and  all  now 
slept  in  a  little  round  bunch,  from  which  heads 
projected  like  the  spokes  of  a  wheel ;  for  in  case  of  a 
night  alarm,  when  so  placed,  every  one  could  take 
wing  without  interference.  Nothing  could  be  finer 
than  the  life  they  led,  yet  again  trouble  was  brewing. 
One  fateful  day  there  came  another  storm.  As 
had  happened  before,  the  sky  was  clear,  there  was  no 
warning.  Even  Mother  White's  weather-wisdom, 
which  could  tell  well  in  advance  when  rain  or  snow 
was  coming,  was  at  fault.  Yet  the  storm  came,  and 
it  was  something  frightful,  yet  peculiar.  All  day 
long  it  raged,  the  stout  corn  swaying  and  crashing 
down,  till  of  all  that  noble  growth  but  a  beggarly 
third  at  one  end  of  the  field  remained  standing. 
When  the  terrified  Whites  reached  the  edge  of  the 
standing  stuff,  they  scarce  could  believe  their  eyes. 
The  ground  was  almost  bare,  yet  marked  with  ap- 
parently endless  rows  of  stubs,  from  which  the  storm 
had  torn  the  mighty  stalks,  and  these,  strange  to  say, 
had  been  whirled  together  into  even,  conical  piles 
which  dotted  the  entire  space.  The  blow  was  one 
of  those  cutting  things  which  White  brains  cannot 
understand ;  yet  some  shelter  remained,  and  into  it 
they  timidly  crept. 


Robert  Wbite,  Jr.  313 

They  had  sufficiently  recovered  to  think  about 
breakfast,  and  Robert  himself  was  leading  toward 
the  best  spot  in  the  stubble,  when  there  sounded  a 
strange  whistle.  Never  had  he  heard  the  like,  so 
he  paused  to  hear  more.  None  of  his  family  ever 
attempted  anything  of  the  kind,  for  this  sound  was 
shrill,  trembly,  and  long-sustained.  He  was  full  of 
curiosity  to  learn  the  cause  of  it,  but  before  he  could 
decide  what  to  do  a  quick  rustling  ahead  warned 
him,  and  he  crouched  ready  to  spring.  The  rus- 
tling slowly  approached,  then  abruptly  ceased.  Un- 
certain as  to  its  cause,  Robert  raised  a  trifle  and 
peered  nervously  ahead.  What  he  saw  almost  caused 
his  heart  to  stand  still.  Some  new  kind  of  monster, 
black  and  white,  and  rather  small  for  a  monster,  was 
standing  perfectly  still  a  few  yards  away.  He  knew 
the  thing  was  alive,  for  he  could  see  two  staring 
eyes,  which,  however,  were  not  looking  at  him. 
For  many  seconds  the  strange  thing  remained  mo- 
tionless and  he  was  sorely  puzzled.  That  the  thing 
meant  mischief  he  felt,  but  he  could  not  understand 
its  method,  for  what  sort  of  way  was  it  for  any  dan- 
gerous thing  to  stand  still  in  plain  view?  His  be- 
wilderment was  abruptly  ended. 

The  other  monster  surely  was  coming!  He  could 
hear  the  thud-thudding,  and  presently  the  dreaded 
noise,  something  like  what  he  had  heard  before. 
To  our  ears  this  noise  would  have  meant  —  "  Steady, 
you  beauty !  Take  the  birds  to  the  right,  Jim.  It's 
a  bevy,  sure !  " 

From  just  behind  Robert  heard  Mother  White's 
low  purring  twitter  of  warning,  which  he  knew  meant 
back  to  the  corn  at  full  speed.  For  an  instant  he 


314  Sporting  Sketches 

hesitated;  then  as  a  tall  monster  appeared  right 
before  him,  he  sprang  as  he  never  had  done  and 
whirred  his  wings  like  mad.  He  was  at  top  speed 
and  pointed  straight  for  the  corn,  when  a  new  noise 
broke  out,  and,  to  his  horror,  the  tip  of  his  right 
wing  refused  to  work,  and  despite  his  desperate 
efforts  he  slanted  down  to  the  ground.  Luckily  he 
did  not  strike  very  hard,  yet  he  was  jarred  and  con- 
fused and  greatly  frightened.  In  an  instant  he  re- 
covered sufficiently  to  remember  what  was  necessary, 
and  with  a  quick  run  he  again  sprang  into  the  air 
and  desperately  beat  his  wings,  only  to  whirl  through 
a  swift  semicircle  and  crash  down  upon  his  back. 
For  a  few  seconds  he  was  too  stunned  to  act,  then 
he  recovered  and  sprang  to  his  feet.  If  the  wing 
refused  to  serve,  there  was  an  unrivalled  pair  of 
legs,  and  away  he  raced  straight  for  the  old  roosting- 
place,  where  the  roots  were  in  the  ground.  One  of 
these  was  hollow,  and  into  the  dark  hole  he  dived 
and  crept  along  a  couple  of  feet  till  he  could  go  no 
farther. 

For  hours  he  lay  there,  frightened,  very  hungry, 
but  determined  to  stick  until  he  heard  his  mother's 
call.  It  was  a  terrible  day.  Strange  noises  sounded 
on  every  side,  and  twice  the  black-and-white  monster 
came  and  snuffed  fiercely  into  the  root.  The  last 
time  it  scraped  madly  with  great  claws,  but  suddenly 
it  uttered  an  awful  yell  and  went  away.  (Robert 
didn't  know  it,  but  the  dog-whip  had  touched  that 
monster,  because  the  bigger  and  wiser  monster  had, 
as  occasionally  happens,  mistaken  a  bit  of  brilliant 
trailing  for  chipmunk  hunting.)  % 

All   disturbance  had  long  ceased  when  Robert 


Robert  White,  Jr.  315 

decided  to  venture  forth.  His  wing  did  not  greatly 
pain  him,  but  he  was  ravenously  hungry,  which,  to 
the  Whites,  is  much  worse  than  any  except  serious 
injuries.  He  had  rammed  himself  so  far  into  the 
root  that  it  was  difficult  to  back  out  against  the  lay 
of  his  feathers,  but  at  last  he  managed  it  and  emerged 
much  ruffled.  A  vigorous  shake  smoothed  him  and 
at  the  same  time  reminded  him  of  the  tipped  wing. 
His  instinct  told  him  not  to  attempt  to  use  it  until 
it  felt  different,  but  the  thing  of  pressing  importance 
was  food.  In  less  than  half  an  hour  he  had  swallowed 
all  he  could  hold,  and  then  came  anxiety  about  the 
others.  From  our  point  of  view,  it  would  have 
been  much  prettier  in  him  to  have  forgotten  food 
and  gone  trotting  and  piping  in  quest  of  his  beloved 
kin,  especially  the  small  brown  mother;  but  wild 
things,  if  hungry,  will  not  pass  food  for  all  the  senti- 
ment ever  miswritten.  Hence  he  fed  first,  and  when 
full,  stood  and  listened. 

There  was  not  a  sound.  The  air  was  still,  and 
the  low  sun  looked  like  a  crystal  globe  full  of  red 
wine  foundering  in  a  sea  of  silver  mist.  For  once 
in  his  life  Robert  had  fed  alone  and  was  to  sleep 
alone,  and  he  did  not  understand  why.  Mother  and 
the  rest  were  near  by  and  he  would  call  them. 
"  Ka-loi-hee  ?  Ka-loi-to  /  Ka-/0z-hee  ?  "  he  piped  as 
loudly  as  he  could,  then  listened  expectantly.  But 
there  was  no  response.  Again  and  again  and  again 
the  sweet  question  rang  louder  and  louder  till 
whispered  echoes  drifted  from  the  darkening  wood, 
but  the  old  answers  came  not  —  in  fact,  they  were 
lying  snug  in  a  new  cover  —  what  men  term  "  brown 
duck." 


316  Sporting  Sketches 

Two  figures,  plodding  along  the  dusking  road, 
heard  Robert's  last  call  and  halted. 

"  By  Jove  !  "  exclaimed  one,  "  I  believe  there  was 
a  bird  in  that  old  root  after  all,  and  I  licked  Don 
for  digging  for  a  chipmunk  !  If  I  was  sure,  I'd  get 
down  on  my  knees  and  apologize  to  that  dog  right 
here." 

And  Robert  ?  —  He  slept  alone  for  several  nights, 
but  never  again  did  he  attempt  to  call  his  lost  ones. 
His  wing  quickly  healed,  and  soon  after  that  he  fell  in 
with  fair  cousins  who  also  had  known  bereavement. 
He  remained  with  them,  sharing  their  joys  and 
sorrows,  delights  and  dangers  of  winter  time,  till 
April  came.  There  was-  one  cousin,  a  bright-eyed, 
brown-cheeked,  plump-breasted  Miss,  who,  when  the 
flowers  bloomed  again,  got  Robert  into  serious 
trouble  —  but  of  that  romance,  more  anon. 


OF  all  our  four-footed  game,  great  and  small,  the 
squirrel  probably  has  furnished  the  most  fun.  He  is 
the  boy's  first  important  quarry,  as  he  is  the  last  re- 
source of  those  still  fond  of  their  bit  of  sport,  but  too 
old  or  too  enfeebled  for  the  rougher  work  of  big  game 
hunting.  And  there  are  many,  too,  in  the  prime  of 
life,  who  do  not  hesitate  to  say  that  they  prefer  a 
lively  day's  squirrel  shooting  to  the  trailing  of  any 
member  of  the  deer  tribe.  Certain  it  is  that  more 
men  hunt  squirrels  than  ever  seek  the  ranges  of  the 
cervidae. 

The  varieties  of  the  squirrel  family  deemed 
worthy  of  pursuit  in  this  country  number  four,  viz. 
the  gray  squirrel,  Sciurus  carolinensis,  the  black 
squirrel,  .5".  niger,  the  fox  squirrel,  which  I  believe 
scientists  regard  as  a  variety  of  the  preceding,  and 
the  red  squirrel,  61.  hudsonicus.  The  last-named  is  a 
nuisance,  and,  in  order  to  abate  a  nuisance,  he  shall 
be  first  considered.  He  is  a  very  common  and 
remarkably  officious  little  beast,  a  dangerous  gossip, 
and  an  intolerable  scold.  Still-hunters  hate  him  as 

3'7 


318  Sporting  Sketches 

they  do  the  jay,  for  both  quite  frequently  balk  the 
hunter's  effort  by  kicking  up  a  row  at  a  critical 
moment  and  thus  warning  every  creature  within 
earshot  that  man,  the  dreaded,  is  about. 

The  red  squirrel  is  apt  to  be  troublesome  in  other 
ways.  He  is  here,  there,  and  everywhere,  about  the 
barns  and  cribs,  stealing  grain  to  hide  in  various 
places,  storing  nuts  in  the  attic,  where  he  persists  in 
running  races  and  clattering  about  when  you  most 
desire  to  sleep,  and  he  it  is  who  litters  your  velvet 
lawn  with  countless  fragments  of  pine  and  fir  cones, 
until  what  was  a  sward  of  beauty  looks  like  a  swirl 
of  scraps.  All  of  these  might  be  forgiven,  as  in 
doing  them  the  creature  merely  follows  its  instincts ; 
but  there  are  graver  charges  against  him. 

Quick,  alert,  beautiful,  and  interesting  he  may  be, 
yet  he  has  a  more  than  sufficiently  strong  dash  of 
evil  in  his  nature.  To  see  him  cosily  hunched  upon 
a  limb,  his  red  banderole  of  a  tail  draped  over  his 
back  while  he  enjoys  a  siesta ;  or  when  sitting  upon 
his  haunches,  while  his  nimble  fore  paws  handle 
cone,  nut,  or  other  food  with  astonishing  dexterity, 
one  never  would  suspect  him  of  being  guilty  of  any 
graver  crime  than  petty  larceny.  Again,  as  he 
bounds  over  the  lawn,  or  rushes  along  the,  to  all  but 
him,  precarious  footing  of  a  narrow  and  perhaps 
crooked  fence  top,  or  darts  up  one  tree  and  flings 
himself  to  the  next  in  reckless  abandon,  he  appears 
the  personification  of  the  wild,  the  free,  and  the 
innocent.  And,  lastly,  when  he  hangs  head  down- 
ward on  a  tree-bole,  and  coughs,  scolds,  and  swears 
at  you  in  sputtering  wrath,  as  though  the  torrent  of 
his  rage  ran  freer  in  the  inverted  position,  it  is  hard 


A  Skirmish  with  Squirrels  319 

to  recognize  in  him  anything  worse  than  a  funny 
and  quite  desirable  small  chap. 

But  let  us  step  into  the  orchard.  The  air  is 
vibrant  with  the  woe  of  robins,  the  wailing  of  cat- 
birds, and  the  sympathetic  outcry  of  a  host  of 
feathered  neighbors.  Some  great  sorrow  has  fallen 
somewhere  amid  the  blooms  and  perfumes  of  that 
lovely  scene.  Yonder  sits  the  sorrow  —  yonder 
upon  a  stub,  the  red  rascal,  turning  a  something  in 
his  clever  paws,  a  something  which  he  calmly 
devours,  to  the  accompaniment  of  screams  and 
futile  protestations  from  the  frantic  birds.  A  frag- 
ment falls,  and  the  squirrel  moves  away.  The  frag- 
ment surely  is  part  of  a  blood-stained  egg-shell,  and 
its  condition  tells  that  within  a  few  days  a  young 
bird  might  have  been  born.  Above  the  lawn  towers 
a  sturdy  pine,  the  top  of  which  has  been  cut  off  to 
make  the  tree  thicken.  For  years  the  flat  top  of 
that  trunk  has  been  the  chosen  resting-place  of  a 
pair  of  beautiful  mourning  doves.  Standing  near 
the  tree,  we  can  hear  a  low  coughing  and  sputtering, 
not  so  unlike  muttered  profanity.  Mingled  with  it 
we  hear  the  rasp  of  gnashing  teeth  and  a  soft  pat- 
bat-bat  !  after  which  the  profanity  increases.  Peer- 
ing upward  we  see,  amid  the  dense  green,  one  of 
Nature's  small  tragedies  being  played  in  deadly 
earnest. 

The  male  dove  is  firmly  braced  above  the  two 
snowy  eggs,  from  which  the  young  will  shortly  appear 
if  all  goes  well.  The  dove  has  one  wing  raised  as  a 
fencer  holds  his  free  hand,  while  the  other  wing  is 
softly  patting  the  bird's  side.  Sticking  to  the  trunk 
a  few  inches  below  the  nest  is  a  squirrel  intent  upon 


320  Sporting  Sketches 

a  raid.  He  has  long  watched  those  eggs,  and  now 
his  instinct  tells  they  are  as  he  would  prefer  them. 
He  makes  a  sudden  bounce  to  intimidate  the  dove, 
but  the  bird  is  brave.  Quick  as  a  flash  the  ready 
wing  meets  the  robber's  nose  and  with  a  biff-barf 
which  suggests  no  trifling  force.  The  blows  almost 
knock  the  squirrel  from  the  trunk,  and  he  is  compelled 
to  temporarily  retreat.  But  although  his  attacks 
have  been  repulsed  half-a-dozen  times,  he  is  by  no 
means  done.  He  sidles  around  the  trunk  and 
attempts  to  carry  the  fortress  from  another  point,  but 
the  wary  dove  has  turned  and  is  ready  for  him,  and 
again  the  wing  beats  him  off.  "  This  will  never 
do,"  say  we,  so  while  one  runs  for  the  gun  the  other 
keeps  watch  upon  the  robber's  movements.  Fi- 
nally, after  being  driven  to  a  proper  distance  from  the 
tree,  the  squirrel's  evil-doing  is  forever  ended  by  a 
storm  of  small  shot,  and  the  valiant  doves  may  rest 
in  peace. 

Beyond  all  question  the  red  squirrel  destroys  a 
great  number  of  the  eggs  of  small  birds,  always  pre- 
ferring those  about  ready  for  the  hatching.  He  also 
devours  young  birds  if  he  can  find  them  within  a 
day  or  two  after  their  leaving  the  shell.  I  have  not 
known  him  to  attack  young  birds  after  they  had  be- 
gun to  sprout  feathers,  but  have  seen  quite  enough 
of  his  work  during  the  earlier  stages  to  warrant  his 
destruction.  I  never  shoot  him  for  any  other  rea- 
son, as  he  is  altogether  too  easy  quarry  to  afford  any 
sport,  while  his  wretched  little  body  is  not  worth 
bothering  about  for  the  table.  But  in  the  case  of 
the  gray,  black,  and  fox  squirrels  things  are  dif- 
ferent. A  fat  young  one  of  any  of  these  varieties  is 


A  Skirmish  with  Squirrels  321 

indeed  dainty  fare  —  so  good  that  it  must  be  tasted 
to  be  properly  appreciated.  Nor  are  the  old  ones, 
when  in  prime  condition,  to  be  despised,  as  they 
only  suffer  when  compared  with  the  young,  there 
naturally  being  a  slight  lack  of  tenderness  and  juici- 
ness. Properly  shot,  dressed,  and  cooked,  a  fat 
squirrel  is  about  as  appetizing  a  thing  as  a  man 
could  desire. 

The  gray  squirrel  is  of  plump  form  and  compara- 
tively short  bodied ;  he  carries  a  fine  tail  which 
looks  not  unlike  a  beautiful  gray  plume.  He  is 
not  so  active  as  the  red  one,  but  he  is  perfectly  at 
home  in  the  trees,  where  as  a  leaper  and  climber  he 
worthily  represents  his  agile  family.  But,  to  my 
mind,  the  longer  and  more  slender  black  fellow  is 
the  handsomest  of  all.  His  coat  shines  like  satin, 
and  his  long,  glossy  tail  adds  to  his  apparent  slender- 
ness  and  truly  is  an  adornment  gracefully  worn. 
The  black  squirrel  is  a  fearless  climber  and  a  dar- 
ing leaper.  Strange  to  say,  in  spite  of  his  color,  an 
intense  black  all  over,  he  is  not  so  easily  seen  after 
he  has  reached  the  upper  branches  of  an  ordinary- 
sized  tree.  He  and  his  gray  cousins  are  very  clever 
at  hiding.  They  will  stick  so  close  to  a  trunk,  or 
lie  so  flat  along  a  limb,  that  frequently  they  escape 
observation,  or  are  only  located  by  the  tip  of  a  tail 
waving  in  the  breeze,  or  by  the  erect  ears  showing 
above  their  hiding-place. 

The  chief  food  of  these  species  consists  of  nuts, 
mast,  and  other  vegetable  growths,  and  they  are 
very  fond  of  corn,  especially  when  the  grain  is  just 
passing  beyond  the  milky  stage.  At  this  time, 
when  at  all  numerous,  they  work  no  slight  damage 


322  Sporting  Sketches 

among  the  corn.  I  have  seen  half-a-dozen  blacks 
following  each  other  at  speed  along  a  snake  fence, 
every  squirrel  carrying  an  ear  of  corn  in  his  mouth. 
The  plunder  was  borne  to  the  shelter  of  near-by 
woods  and  there  devoured  at  leisure.  The  squirrels 
would  make  many  trips  during  the  day,  and  a  stroll 
through  the  corn-field  would  reveal  ample  evidence 
of  their  destructiveness.  More  than  once  I  have 
heard  farmers  declare  that  the  black  raiders  had 
destroyed  fully  three-fourths  of  what  had  promised 
to  be  a  fair  crop.  This,  of  course,  where  the  field 
lay  close  to  a  large  wood. 

I  have  used  both  gun  and  rifle  in  the  pursuit  of 
this  game,  and  have  enjoyed  fine  sport  with  both. 
But  the  shot-gun  never  should  be  aimed  at  a 
crouching  squirrel.  Sportsmanship  demands  that 
the  game  should  be  in  motion  when  the  trigger  is 
pulled.  The  squirrel  may  be  dashing  over  the 
ground,  speeding  along  a  fence  top,  a  limb,  or 
ascending  a  tree-bole,  —  it  is  all  right  so  long  as  he 
is  moving.  The  greatest  feat  of  all  is  to  stop  him 
in  the  middle  of  a  leap  from  one  tree  to  another. 
This  requires  quick,  accurate  work,  and  the  best  of 
shots  often  fail  to  score  a  clean  kill.  A  miss  in  the 
air  and  a  kill  with  the  second  barrel  as  the  squirrel 
races  along  a  limb  is  no  uncommon  occurrence. 

Your  true  squirrel  hunter  is  full  of  guile.  We  of 
the  old  brigade  played  many  a  trick  upon  an  unso- 
phisticated comrade.  If  a  squirrel  was  lost  to  sight 
in  a  thick-foliaged  tree,  then  the  wisest  course  was 
to  get  the  other  fellow  to  pound  the  trunk  with  a 
club.  When  a  squirrel  was  see-n  upon  the  ground 
and  making  good  time  for  his  favorite  tree,  then  it 


A  Skirmish  witb  Squirrels  323 

was  good  form  to  pursue,  yelling  to  excite  your 
friend,  and,  as  the  tree  was  neared,  to  slow  up  that 
he  might  out-foot  you  a  trifle.  Of  course  the  squir- 
rel went  up  the  far  side  of  the  tree,  and  your  com- 
rade, proud  of  having  outrun  you,  promptly  chased 
around  the  tree  to  get  a  shot,  whereupon  the 
squirrel,  being  unable  to  count,  at  once  shifted 
around  to  your  side  and  offered  an  easy  enough 
mark.  When  certain  that  a  squirrel  was  hidden  in 
the  upper  foliage,  or  upon  some  limb,  and  all  pound- 
ing and  shouting  had  failed  to  move  him,  the  last 
resort  was  to  fire  one  barrel  into  the  densest  part  of 
the  tree,  and  then  stop  the  frightened  game  with  the 
second.  Unless  the  squirrel  had  holed,  this  seldom 
failed  to  start  him. 

For  some  unknown  reason  the  supply  of  black 
squirrels  varied  curiously.  One  season  they  would 
be  found  in  great  numbers  —  I  once  drove  seven  up 
an  isolated  tree  in  a  corn-field  —  and  a  year  later 
none  could  be  found  in  a  day's  search.  The  coun- 
try folk  had  a  saying  that  squirrels  were  plentiful 
every  seven  years.  I  will  not  vouch  for  the  correct- 
ness of  this,  but  I  know  that  after  the  army  of  squir- 
rels had  disappeared,  they  were  not  again  numerous 
until  some  years  had  elapsed.  It  was  not  a  case  of 
thinning  out  and  breeding  up,  but  a  more  or  less 
regular  movement  across  the  country.  I  never 
rightly  understood  their  migrations,  but  I  have 
seen  large  numbers  of  them  moving  through  the 
woods  as  though  bound  upon  some  well-under- 
stood mission.  I  have  killed  plenty  in  one  bit 
of  woods  and  a  few  days  later  found  not  one  upon 
that  ground,  while  the  next  bit  of  woods  in  the 


324  Sporting  Sketches 

direction  of  the  general  movement  furnished  the 
best  of  sport. 

The  successful  squirrel  hunter  was  the  envy  of 
his  youthful  associates.  I  ranked  high,  probably 
because  I  had  a  much  better  gun  than  any  of  my 
comrades.  I  used  to  sally  forth  with  a  narrow 
strap  buckled  about  my  waist.  When  a  squirrel 
was  killed,  the  hind  leg  was  slit  under  the  tendon, 
the  strap  passed  through  and  rebuckled.  Twenty 
squirrels  thus  hung,  with  long  tails  fluttering  free, 
made  a  noble  fur-kilt,  quite  worthy  of  a  Zulu  chief- 
tain, or  Robinson  Crusoe  himself.  When  the  bag 
was  large,  needless  to  say  the  proper  route  home 
was  through  the  busiest  streets.  Per  contra,  when 
the  bag  was  otherwise  —  just  naturally  too  light  a 
bag  waited  for  darkness. 

In  our  country  were  many  negroes  who  loved 
"squrl"  and  were  always  hunting  when  that  game 
was  to  be  had.  I  once  so  far  fell  from  grace  as 
to  sell  seven  squirrels  to  a  negro  for  a  nickel  apiece. 
In  town,  they  were  worth  a  dime  each,  but  one  should 
not  expect  top  prices  in  the  outposts.  So  I  sold 
them,  and  he  paid  me  a  bad  quarter  dollar  and 
promised  the  balance  later.  He  has  never  yet 
made  good.  Because  of  that  transaction  war  was 
declared,  and  assuredly  the  brunettes  had  a  merry 
time.  A  large  percentage  of  them  were  good 
hunters  who  understood  the  habits  of  their  quarry, 
but  they  were  poor  shots  and  inclined  to  laziness. 
They  carried,  as  a  rule,  long-barrelled,  single  guns, 
of  about  fourteen  or  sixteen  gauge,  while  the 
ammunition  was  in  the  old-fashioned  horn  and 
pouch,  or,  more  frequently,  in  bottles  of  suitable 


A  Skirmish  witb  Squirrels  325 

size.  Every  one  of  the  quaint  old  guns  was  surely 
the  best  ever  made,  and  their  owners  had  all  sorts 
of  names  for  them,  such  as  "  Wild  Frank,"  "  Long 
Maria,"  "  Sweet  Honey,"  "  Reachin'  Sue,"  and  so 
on.  A  few  of  them,  when  properly  loaded,  would 
shoot  fairly  well,  but  most  of  them  were  regular 
old  gas-pipes  which  flung  the  big  shot  far  and 
wide.  The  negroes  never  attempted  a  running 
shot,  but  followed  a  squirrel  until  it  had  halted 
in  an  easy  position,  and  then,  like  as  not,  the  old 
gun  was  fired  from  a  rest.  The  fact  that  every 
squirrel  shot  meant  a  dime  in  the  hunter's  pocket 
will  explain  the  extreme  caution  exercised. 

The  negroes,  dyed-in-the-wool  pot-hunters  as  they 
were,  never  would  give  a  squirrel  a  fair  chance,  and 
they  absolutely  would  not  hustle,  so  we  did  things 
to  them  cheerfully  and  without  price.  To  roll  a 
wad  of  leaves  and  tie  it  firmly  with  a  bit  of  twine 
is  a  very  simple  matter;  to  cut  the  tail  from  a  dead 
squirrel  and  affix  it  to  the  roll  is  not  too  laborious, 
considering  the  joys  it  may  bring.  To  climb  an  easy 
tree  and  lash  the  dummy  in  a  lofty  fork  possibly  is 
hardish  work,  but  then,  where  the  tail  swings  free, 
the  thing  does  look  so  like  a  squirrel.  Thus  we 
made  and  set  the  coon-trap.  And  if  the  coon  did 
not  find  it,  we  attended  to  everything  with  a  guile- 
less simplicity  which  was  extremely  beautiful.  We 
would  meet  our  victim  and  make  fair  speech  unto 
him,  show  him  our  squirrels,  and  gradually  drift 
him  into  the  danger  zone.  Ten  to  one  he'd  be 
the  first  to  see  the  squirrel !  And  then,  was  it  not 
rare  sweet  joy  to  notice  how  he  would  manoeuvre  us 
away  from  the  prize,  till  in  spite  of  our  exasperating 


326  Sporting  Sketches 

dawdling,  we  were  far  enough !  Then  it  surely 
would  be  — "  Wa'al,  good  mawnin',  gemmen  — 
reckon  I'se  dun  gwine  dishyer  ways  fur  a  peece  — 
you'se  'tirely  too  spry  fur  de  ole  man  dis  mawnin'." 

And  then  how  we'd  leg  it  till  we  could  melt  in 
behind  handy  trees  from  which  to  watch  the  old 
rascal  hustling  back  for  that  "  squrl " !  He'd  find  it, 
too,  all  right,  and  before  long  the  roar  of  the  old 
gas-pipe  would  come  to  our  straining  ears.  Sweet 
was  that  sound  —  sweet  as  the  purl  of  running 
water  in  the  desert,  or  a  drift  of  music  from  the 
nearest  there  may  be  to  an  earthly  Eden.  Only  the 
truly  good  can  understand  !  And  the  victim  would 
load  and  fire  again  and  again  while  we  kept  careful 
tabs.  We  could  picture  him  fumbling  and  sweating 
while  trying  to  keep  his  pop  eyes  on  the  wary  quarry. 
At  every  fresh  roar  there  would  be  gasping  snorts  of 
bliss,  while  we  lay  on  the  ground  and  clung  to  roots 
and  things,  lest  we  be  bodily  transported  to  where 
such  pleasure  knoweth  no  end.  And  when  at  last 
the  final  silence  fell  —  when  we  knew  that  shot,  or 
powder,  or  caps,  had  run  out,  —  wow !  how  good  it 
was! — how  fair  the  earth!  —  how  sweet  just  to 
lie  there  and  picture  the  outraged  one  storming 
away  home  and  maybe  half  knocking  the  head  off 
the  first  pickaninny  that  dared  to  ask  —  "Did  yo' 
git  menny  squrl  ?  " 

But  the  cream  of  the  squirrel  shooting  is  enjoyed 
by  the  man  who  uses  a  light  rifle  of  small  caliber 
and  medium  power.  Good  shots  always  aimed  for 
the  head,  both  to  add  to  the  difficulty  of  the  sport  and 
to  avoid  spoiling  meat.  And  be  it  known  that  a 
squirrel's  head  at  forty  or  fifty  yards  is  no  easy 


A  Skirmisb  with  Squirrels  327 

mark.  Quite  frequently  an  animal  would  be  dis- 
covered lying  flat  upon  a  large  limb,  or  sticking 
close  to  a  tree-bole.  In  such  cases  it  was  a  favorite 
trick  to  try  the  "  barking  "  shot  —  i.e.  to  cause  the 
ball  to  strike  immediately  under  the  squirrel.  If  the 
ball  be  large  and  correctly  placed,  the  shock  will 
bounce  the  game  from  its  hold  and  send  it  down  as 
dead  as  though  the  lead  had  pierced  it.  This  feat 
of  "  barking  "  squirrels  has  been  questioned  by  many 
doubters,  but  I  have  both  seen  it  done  and  per- 
formed it  so  many  times  that  I  wonder  that  every 
squirrel  hunter  does  not  know  all  about  it.  I  never 
attempted  it  with  an  arm  of  extremely  small  caliber. 
Vastly  more  difficult  feats  are  performed  daily  in 
shooting  galleries. 

The  best  time  for  the  rifle  is  during  those  brave 
brown  days  when  nuts  are  ripe,  and  the  most  profit- 
able hours  are  immediately  after  sunrise  and  toward 
sunset.  Then  the  squirrels  are  busy  feeding,  and 
the  true  still-hunter  will  find  much  to  interest  him, 
even  should  he  fail  to  bag  one  head  of  game.  That 
all  things  come  to  him  who  waits  is  peculiarly 
applicable  to  this  form  of  sport.  There  is  no  use  in 
tramping  noisily  about.  Sharp  eyes  and  ears  see 
and  hear  you  long  before  you  can  locate  their 
owners  —  the  one  reliable  way  is  to  keep  still  and 
listen. 

Let  us  go  into  this  wood  where  broad-leaved 
hickories,  sturdy  oaks,  scattering  chestnuts,  tower- 
ing elms,  and  fine  beeches,  and  maples  are  min- 
gled in  fair  proportion.  Tread  lightly  here,  'tis 
squirrel-haunted  ground,  and  yonder  is  an  ex- 
cellent seat,  a  mossy  log  well  within  the  shadow 


328  Sporting  Sketches 

of  the  trees.  The  one  large  pool,  all  that  is  left  of 
the  creek,  gleams  in  the  light  which  tells  that  a  fine 
day  for  sport  has  just  begun.  The  woods  are 
strangely  quiet.  A  mysterious  hush  prevails  over 
all  things,  and  silent-footed  shadows  creep  from  tree 
to  tree.  Now  and  then  a  whisper  of  bird-voices 
tinkles  far  away,  only  to  quickly  die  and  render  the 
solemn  stillness  the  more  impressive.  We  wait- 
and  wait.  Shafts  of  golden  light  flash  through  loop- 
holes in  the  dome  of  foliage  and  kindle  mimic  fires 
amid  the  fallen  leaves.  We  breathe  the  sweet 
woody  airs,  and  feel  within  us  something  of  the 
holy  calm  which  seems  to  have  brought  the  entire 
scene  under  its  soothing  spell. 

Spat!  We  involuntarily  start,  for  the  sound 
seems  to  rip  the  stillness  like  a  pistol-shot.  Was  it 
a  large  drop  of  water  falling  upon  a  broad  leaf,  or 
was  it  —  ? 

Spat  —  spat !  This  time  followed  by  a  soft 
rustling  of  leaves  in  that  hickory  fifty  feet  away. 
The  spell  is  broken;  the  witchery  of  woodlands 
loses  its  subtle  charm,  for  the  small  sounds  tell  that 
the  game  is  afoot.  A  distant  barking  elicits  a 
louder,  nearer  reply,  and  soon  sounds  of  busy  life 
are  heard  from  every  side.  A  fragment  of  nutshell 
falls  pattering  through  the  leaves  and  strikes  the 
ground  in  plain  view,  and  small  branches  almost 
overhead  rustle  and  sway.  Presently  the  little  rifle 
is  pointed  upward,  then  a  sharp  report,  a  momentary 
agitation  among  the  branches,  a  succession  of  crashes, 
a  heavy  thump  upon  the  ground  —  and  there  he 
lies.  He  is  a  fat  fellow,  but  a,  red  streak  in  his 
glossy  fur  shows  where  the  ball  passed  through  his 


A  Skirmish  with  Squirrels  329 

neck,  an  inch  from  the  spot  aimed  at.  But  the  view 
was  none  too  clear  and  no  meat  is  spoiled.  Rus- 
tling of  leaves  and  branches  are  heard  in  several 
directions,  for  the  rifle,  though  small,  has  a  spiteful 
tongue,  and  the  game  has  moved  a  bit.  In  the 
distance  a  swift  shape  is  traversing  a  fallen  tree, 
but  we  had  better  remain  quietly  where  we  are,  as 
another  squirrel  may  be  hiding  above.  Moments 
pass  and  at  last  a  leaf  rustles.  There !  See  —  upon 
that  long  limb  stretching  toward  the  maples.  With 
high-arched  back  and  head  in  bold  relief,  he  pauses 
to  measure  the  leap.  The  other  rifle  comes  into 
position,  dwells  a  moment,  then  again  the  fatal 
crack.  The  squirrel  makes  a  convulsive  spring  in 
the  direction  it  had  intended  taking,  but  it  appears 
to  halt  in  mid  air ;  then  it  comes  whizzing  down, 
turning  over  and  over  as  it  falls.  The  shock  was 
instant  death. 

And  so  it  goes  on  through  three  pleasant  hours. 
We  change  position  now  and  then,  but  at  last  the 
word  has  been  passed  around  to  all  the  furry  people, 
and  chances  become  few  and  far  between.  Our  last 
squirrel  is  espied  running  along  the  border-fence,  and 
we  watch  him  closely.  He  halts,  hesitates,  then  drops 
upon  the  ground,  where  for  a  time  he  sits  erect  to 
take  observations.  Satisfied  that  the  coast  is  clear, 
he  moves  toward  the  pool  in  a  series  of  hesitating 
leaps,  interrupted  by  many  cautious  pauses  for 
examination  of  the  surroundings.  He  at  last  leaps 
to  a  small  snag  projecting  a  few  inches  above  the 
water.  He  forms  a  pretty  picture  as  he  sits  with 
ebon  plume  curving  above  his  back,  and  his  in- 
verted image  as  sharply  defined  below. 


330  Sporting  Sketches 

It  is  indeed  a  fair  chance  at  forty  yards ;  yet  at  the 
sound  of  the  rifle  a  cascade  of  white  water  leaps  into 
the  air,  and  the  thoroughly  frightened  squirrel  darts 
to  the  nearest  tree.  In  his  haste  he  has  chosen  an 
isolated  shelter,  far  beyond  leaping  distance  from 
its  nearest  neighbor.  And  now  for  the  wind-up. 
The  tree  is  healthy,  tall,  free  from  holes,  and  the 
game's  sole  chance  is  to  climb  to  the  loftiest  twig 
that  will  bear  his  weight.  There  he  is,  at  the  very 
top,  swaying  to  and  fro  upon  a  slender  switch.  His 
fluttering  tail  adds  to  the  difficulty  of  the  mark. 
Five  times  the  small  rifles  hail  him,  the  buzzing 
lead  almost  ruffling  his  fur.  Yet  he  gives  no  sign. 
He  has  done  his  best  in  such  a  tree;  this  his 
instinct  tells  him,  and  all  he  can  do  is  hang  on 
and  wait.  It  is  not  for  long.  The  sixth  shot  is 
better  timed.  A  small  black  ball  starts  earthward, 
gaining  velocity  and  bulk  as  it  comes,  and  strikes 
the  ground  with  a  sounding  thump,  then  rebounds 
a  yard  into  the  air.  Now  let  us  be  off  for  break- 
fast, for  the  cup  of  coffee  at  starting  has  long  since 
lost  its  influence.  We  may  try  again  toward  even- 
ing, for  there  are  plenty  of  squirrels  left 


CMAIPTEIK 


THE  turkey  is  wondrous  toothsome,  whether  it  be 
a  choice  bird  from  the  fattening  pen  or  one  of  those 
kings  of  the  feathered  race,  a  grand  wild  fellow,  slain 
perhaps  after  a  deal  of  toil  and  trouble  in  his  native 
haunt  —  some  Southern  river  bottom,  Western  scrub, 
or  lonely  Canadian  forest.  The  price  paid  by  the 
epicure  for  his  wild  bird  would  doubtless  purchase 
provisions  enough  to  feast  a  family  of  the  bread- 
winning  class  on  excellent  fare  for  an  entire  week, 
so  the  toilers  must  needs  be  content  with  a  less 
aristocratic  fowl  than  Meleagris  gallopavo. 

Year  by  year  the  wild  birds  are  decreasing  in 
number,  and  the  day  is  not  far  distant  when  the 
turkey  will  no  longer  exist  in  the  wild  state  save 
in  a  few  favored  portions  of  the  South  and  South- 
west. Easily  trapped  and  always  valuable,  either 
for  the  market  or  for  home  consumption,  it  is 
hardly  surprising  that  the  birds  have  been  eagerly 
sought  and  remorselessly  slain  wherever  found,  and 
were  it  not  for  their  keen  sight  and  swift  and  endur- 
ing running  powers  they  would  long  ago  have  been 
exterminated  in  certain  accessible  forests  where  a 
few  yet  find  a  home. 

But  while  the  turkey  is  one  of  the  easiest  birds 
to  trap,  he  is  no  fool  to  follow  with  rifle  or  gun 

331 


332  Sporting  Sketches 

in  his  forest  ranges.  Wild  and  shy  to  a  de- 
gree, keen  sighted,  quick  eared,  swift  of  foot,  and 
strong  of  wing  when  needs  be,  he  is  also  sharply 
suspicious  of  a  man  on  foot,  and  quite  as  difficult  to 
"still-hunt"  as  a  deer.  Generally  ranging  in  heavy 
forest,  and  within  easy  reach  of  tangled  scrub  or 
other  baffling  cover,  no  sooner  does  he  suspect 
danger  than  his  long  legs  bear  him  swiftly  to  the 
densest  growth  he  can  find,  through  which  a  man 
may  track  him  for  hours  without  either  obtaining  a 
shot  or  forcing  him  to  take  wing,  and  frequently  the 
bird  will  not  even  be  seen. 

The  principles  of  good  sportsmanship  admit  of 
the  wild  turkey  being  taken  by  several  methods. 
One  of  these  is  shooting  the  birds  when  roosting 
in  tall  timber  at  night.  All  that  is  necessary  is 
first  to  locate  the  "roost,"  then  to  steal  upon  the 
unsuspecting  game  and  shoot  as  many  as  possible 
before  the  turkeys  realize  what  is  going  on  and 
leave  the  unhealthy  neighborhood.  A  second 
method  is  "calling,"  or  "yelping."  The  sports- 
man uses  a  bone  from  a  turkey's  wing  as  a  "  caller," 
and  by  sucking  air  through  this  bone  in  the  proper 
fashion  an  exact  imitation  of  the  "  yelp  "  of  the  bird 
is  produced.  An  ordinary  clay  pipe  also  makes  an 
excellent  caller.  This  method  may  be  followed  with 
deadly  effect  either  after  a  flock  has  been  scattered 
or,  as  is  done  in  the  South,  while  the  gobblers  are 
"strutting,"  in  which  case  a  good  imitation  of  the 
cry  of  a  lovelorn  hen  will  lure  the  male  to  his 
destruction. 

Still  another  method,  the  most- dashing  and  excit- 
ing sport  of  all,  is  coursing  the  birds  with  greyhounds. 


Turkey — with  Thanksgiving  333 

This  demands  an  open  country,  and  is,  I  believe,  only 
attempted  on  the  plains  of  the  far  South  and  South- 
west. For  this  sport  a  man  must  be  a  good  horse- 
man and  be  well  mounted,  as  the  going  is  fast  and 
free  and  the  ground  covered  frequently  dangerous. 
The  turkeys  are  found  feeding  in  the  open ;  the  dogs 
are  slipped,  and  when  the  birds  take  wing,  horse  and 
hounds  follow  the  selected  victim  as  fast  as  they  can 
lay  foot  to  the  ground.  The  turkey  flies  straight, 
and  though  its  first  flight  may  be  half  a  mile  or 
more,  it  has  not  time  to  recover  from  the  unusual 
exertion  ere  the  fleet  dogs  again  compel  it  to  take 
wing.  It  may  rise  two  or  three  times,  but  its 
strength  is  soon  spent,  and  unless  it  can  reach 
heavy  cover  the  dogs  pull  it  down,  the  horseman 
meanwhile  following  the  chase  in  the  best  way  that 
he  can. 

Yet  another  method,  and  a  thoroughly  sportsman- 
like one,  is  tracking  or  "still-hunting."  The  best 
time  for  this  is  immediately  after  a  light  fall  of  snow, 
when  all  sign  is  fresh,  and  the  contest  becomes  a 
fair  test  of  hunter's  craft  against  cunning  and  endur- 
ance. The  still-hunter  will  earn  his  bird,  no  matter 
whether  he  carry  a  rifle  and  kill  his  game  at  long 
range,  or  a  shot-gun  and  kill  it  flying,  after  he  has 
fairly  tramped  it  to  a  standstill,  forced  it  from  sheer 
weariness  to  squat  and  hide,  and  then  flushed  it  from 
cover  by  his  close  approach.  Tracking  turkeys  in 
the  kind  of  ground  they  usually  favor  is  emphati- 
cally hard  work,  and  the  tracker  will  be  led,  perhaps, 
for  mile  after  mile  through  just  the  sort  of  cover 
that  tempts  one  to  halt  and  "talk  the  bark  off  a 
tree  "  now  and  then.  I  have  many  times  followed 


334  Sporting  Sketches 

turkeys  —  sometimes  on  the  tracks,  sometimes  by 
guesswork  —  for  an  entire  day  and  never  had  a 
chance  at  a  bird. 

One  fall,  that  now  has  many  leaves  upon  its  grave, 
I  decided  to  take  a  run  into  Essex  Woods  and  try  for 
a  good  gobbler,  though  a  plump  hen  would  not  have 
been  beneath  attention.  It  had  rained  hard  for 
several  days,  then  the  cold  came,  and  with  it  a  slight 
fall  of  snow,  though  hardly  sufficient  for  good  track- 
ing. It  was  an  extremely  sharp,  clear  morning  when 
I  left  a  comfortable  farm-house  some  miles  west  of 
Essex  Centre,  and  with  Winchester  on  shoulder 
started  for  the  great  silent  stretch  of  woods  which 
extended  for  miles  in  every  direction.  I  knew  that 
the  fowl  were  in  those  woods,  and  was  fully  resolved 
to  have  one  before  night,  but  soon  learned  that  it 
wasn't  a  good  day  for  turkey. 

Every  hollow  between  the  thick-standing  oaks, 
maples,  and  elms  had  been  rilled  to  o'erflowing  by  the 
rains,  and  now  every  pool  was  covered  with  an  inch- 
thick  coat  of  ice  — just  thick  enough  not  to  bear  one 
hundred  and  eighty  pounds.  Every  twig  and  frozen 
leaf  under  foot  crushed  like  glass,  and  under  such 
conditions  I  was  about  as  likely  to  get  within  shot 
of  a  turkey  as  I  was  to  tree  a  Bengal  tiger  up  one 
of  the  big  elms.  There  was  nothing  for  it  but  to 
acknowledge  a  balk,  and  I  retreated  to  the  railroad, 
the  track  being  about  the  only  place  where  dry  walk- 
ing was  possible.  After  infinite  difficulty,  aided  by 
a  couple  of  rails  from  the  snake-fence,  I  managed  to 
safely  cross  the  deep  ditch  between  the  woods  and 
the  track,  and  so  reached  safe  footing. 

It  was  an  exasperating  situation.     Straight  as  a 


Turkey  —  with  Thanksgiving  335 

rule,  east  and  west,  stretched  the  narrow  road-bed, 
with  its  two  shining  rails ;  on  either  side  were  broad 
ditches  containing  water  perhaps  five  feet  deep, 
coated  with  treacherous  ice,  and  I  thus  had  a 
promenade  over  one  hundred  miles  long,  but  only 
about  fifteen  feet  wide.  A  tempting  shooting 
ground,  truly  !  A  fellow  might  get  rail-birds  on  it 
or  shoot  off  a  few  ties  to  fill  in  time,  but  it  was  not 
very  exhilarating.  There  was  nothing  to  do  until 
the  evening  train  came  along  to  take  me  home 
again.  Nothing  but  a  heavy  frost,  followed  by 
snow,  would  make  still-hunting  possible,  and  there 
were  no  indications  of  snow. 

For  want  of  something  better  to  do  I  strolled  a 
couple  of  miles  along  the  track,  and  by  so  doing 
made  a  discovery  which  changed  the  aspect  of 
affairs.  A  car  laden  with  shelled  corn  must  have 
passed  some  days  before  and  had  a  hole  in  it,  for  a 
streak  of  yellow  grain  extended  for  some  three 
hundred  yards  beside  the  rails.  Near  my  end  of  the 
corn  was  a  culvert  through  which,  under  ordinary 
conditions,  cattle  could  pass.  But  it  was  now  filled 
to  within  a  couple  of  feet  of  the  top  with  water,  like 
the  ditches  coated  with  ice. 

Everywhere  within  a  short  distance  of  this  culvert 
were  traces  of  wild  turkeys,  and  it  was  an  easy  task 
to  read  the  possibilities.  The  birds  had  discovered 
the  trail  of  grain  and  had  been  feeding  on  it  for  two 
or  three  days.  The  rains  had  drowned  out  their 
feeding  grounds  in  the  woods,  and  they  would  be 
sure  to  return  to  the  corn  day  after  day  until  the 
last  grain  was  eaten.  It  was  simply  a  question  of 
close  hiding,  more  or  less  of  the  long  agony  of  hope 


336  Sporting  Sketches 

deferred,  and  then  —  and  then  a  turkey  would  be 
mine !  I  fairly  grinned  over  that  layout. 

But  where  to  hide?  Not  an  available  point 
offered  ;  the  track  was  as  bare  as  the  rifle  barrel, 
and  the  road-bed  was  elevated  so  much  above  the 
level  of  the  woods  that  it  could  not  be  properly  com- 
manded, except  I  climbed  a  tree,  which  would  be 
altogether  unsuitable. 

The  culvert ! 

Yes,  the  culvert ;  but  the  ice  would  barely  hold, 
thought  I.  However,  a  look  at  it  would  do  no 
harm.  I  carefully  tested  it,  and  found  that  owing 
to  its  narrowness  and  the  grip  the  timber  walls 
afforded  the  ice  it  would  just  bear  me.  Happy 
thought ;  a  board  off  yon  gate  broken  in  two  and 
cushioned  with  a  layer  of  dry  grass  and  stuff  would 
make  a  comfortable  resting-place,  and  spread  its 
pressure  on  the  ice  sufficiently  to  make  all  safe. 
The  board  was  soon  secured,  placed  in  two  halves 
on  the  ice,  and  padded  with  handfuls  of  withered 
herbage,  and  I  was  all  ready  for  business.  Sitting 
upon  my  boards,  I  could  just  comfortably  raise  my 
eyes  above  the  track,  and  if  I  got  upon  my  knees, 
the  edge  of  the  culvert  afforded  a  dead  rest  for  my 
elbow,  and  I  felt  I  couldn't  miss  a  turkey  at  one 
hundred  yards  if  I  tried.  It  was  superb,  and  I 
grinned  some  more.  This  was  just  the  luckiest, 
laziest  turkey-shoot  on  record. 

For  some  time  I  sat  there,  closely  watching  the 
track  and  the  woods  upon  either  side.  It  was  tedious, 
cold  work  enough,  and  in  due  time  I  grew  weary 
and  cramped  from  the  confined  position  and  varied 
things  by  creeping  out  of  my  shelter  and  having  a 


Turkey  —  with  Thanksgiving  337 

bit  of  a  dance  to  stir  sluggish  blood.  Just  as  I 
thought  of  again  going  to  cover,  a  black  object 
moved  in  the  woods,  perhaps  two  hundred  yards 
away.  No  need  for  a  second  glance  ;  it  could  only 
be  a  turkey ;  and  as  speedily  as  possible  I  crawled 
back  into  the  culvert,  and  with  my  head  close  to  the 
rail  waited  further  developments.  Moments  dragged 
past,  and  at  last  one  bird  appeared  on  the  track, 
a  good  three  hundred  yards  off,  and  was  presently 
followed  by  another,  and  another,  and  yet  others, 
until  nine  stately  fowl  were  in  plain  view.  They 
soon  turned  in  my  direction,  and  moved  forward. 

It  was  now  a  "  regular  cinch,"  and  I  hugged  my 
head  closer  to  the  rail  and  glared  down  the  track  at 
those  turkeys  with  a  burning  intentness  that  melted 
what  little  snow  there  was  near  my  face.  They 
were  coming  —  they  were  bound  to  feed  right  up  to 
my  stand  if  I  chose  to  let  'em.  I  would  kill  the  big 
gobbler,  and  then  take  chances  for  another,  run  or 
fly.  No,  I  wouldn't  either.  I  would  be  silent  and 
wary  as  a  lynx  and  let  them  feed  good  and  close, 
and  wait  for  the  big  fellow  and  another  to  get  in 
line  and  straighten  out  a  brace  of  them  at  the  one 
shot. 

They  came  steadily  on.  They  were  now  only 
about  two  hundred  yards  away,  and  advancing  in 
Indian  file.  Nearer  and  nearer  they  came,  and  I 
changed  my  purpose.  Two  in  line  were  not  enough 
for  such  an  opportunity.  I  would  draw  a  dead  bead 
on  the  big  fellow  and  hold  on  him  till  three  were  in 
range.  Yes,  that  would  be  better.  Still  they  ad- 
vanced, and  only  one  hundred  and  fifty  yards 
separated  them  from  their  doom.  Now  they  quick- 


338  Sporting  Sketches 

ened  their  movements  and  advanced  rapidly  for 
some  distance.  They  had  reached  the  trail  of  corn, 
and  they  crowded  close  bunched  over  the  first  scat- 
tered grains.  Once  again  my  resolution  wavered. 
Hang  it  all !  it  was  just  as  easy  to  get  four  in  line  — 
a  ball  at  short  range  would  stiffen  four  of  them  easy 
enough.  I  must  have  four. 

Step  by  step,  yard  by  yard,  they  came  on,  ever 
drawing  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  certain  death  that 
waited  to  claim  its  four.  Every  once  in  a  while 
they  would  all  bunch  together,  and  as  they  did  this 
at  a  range  of  about  one  hundred  yards  my  modesty 
wavered  again. 

Could  it  be  possible  to  drive  a  ball  through  five 
of  them  in  line  ?  Such  a  record  —  such  a  shot  to 
describe  to  the  boys !  Five  grand  wild  turkeys  at 
one  lick!  I  was  just  fairly  entertaining  the  five 
notion,  when  an  ominous  click  sounded  along  the 
rails  —  that  mysterious  click  which  announces  the 
coming  of  a  train. 

"  Click  —  tuck  —  click !  "  There  was  no  mistake. 
It  must  be  a  freight,  for  no  express  was  due  at  that 
hour. 

"  Click  —  tuck-lick  —  click ! "  The  mysterious 
message  had  reached  the  turkeys'  ears,  too,  and 
they  lifted  their  heads  on  high  and  stood  motion- 
less. I  breathed  hard  at  the  change  of  luck,  and 
considered  what  I  should  do.  My  mind  was  almost 
made  up  to  shoot  at  once,  for  the  rails  were  now 
clicking  merrily,  when,  like  a  saving  clause,  the 
thought  occurred  to  me  that  they  heard  trains  pass- 
ing many  times  every  day,  and  probably  would 
merely  retreat  into  the  woods  for  a  short  distance 


Turkey — with  Thanksgiving  339 

and  return  when  all  became  still.  They  had  cer- 
tainly been  disturbed  in  this  fashion  more  than  once 
before. 

These  reflections  were  rather  comforting,  and  I 
resolved  to  just  lie  low  where  I  was  and  let  the 
train  thunder  above  my  head.  I  was  perfectly  safe 
and  could  get  my  five  birds  just  as  well  as  not  when 
they  came  back.  I  took  a  peep  eastward,  and  there, 
sure  enough,  was  my  train  coming  along  at  a  great 
rate.  Looking  again  in  the  direction  of  the  turkeys, 
I  saw  the  last  two  or  three  trot  into  cover.  They 
undoubtedly  were  not  seriously  alarmed  and  would 
resume  feeding  in  half  an  hour. 

There  I  lay,  close  as  possible,  and  in  a  moment 
the  train  thundered  overhead.  Though  I  knew  I 
was  perfectly  secure,  I  fairly  shuddered  as  the  first 
couple  of  pairs  of  wheels  passed  so  close  to  my  head. 
Heavens !  what  a  jar  and  row  it  made !  Would  it 
never  draw  its  frightful  length  across  that  culvert  ? 
At  last,  when  I  was  almost  deafened,  a  blessed  pause 
in  the  uproar  brought  relief.  A  hollow  "  plunk- 
plunk"  of  the  last  pair  of  wheels  announced  the 
complete  passage  of  the  conductor's  red  van,  and  I 
made  a  move  to  rise. 

There  was  a  faint,  squeaking,  grinding  noise,  a 
squirt  of  ice-cold  water,  then  a  frightful  crash  and 
splash,  and  I  gave  an  involuntary  imitation  of  a 
young  man  falling  through  a  glass  skylight  and 
fetching  up  in  a  well.  The  vibration  of  the  train 
had  loosened  the  ice  from  the  walls  of  the  culvert, 
and  the  whole  business  broke  into  fragments,  and  I 
was  in  it ! 

I  didn't   wait  to  touch  bottom,  but  pawed   and 


340  Sporting  Sketches 

sputtered  and  floundered  round  with  the  bits  of 
boards  and  the  roots  and  the  grass  and  the  ice,  and 
clambered  out  just  as  quick  as  the  Lord  would 
allow.  Then  I  swore  at  the  train  and  the  turkeys 
and  the  culvert  and  the  ice  and  the  water  and  the 
smart  Aleck  who  planned  the  ambushment,  and  the 
rifle  for  being  in  that  zeroed  fool-trap  yet ;  then,  in 
spite  of  chattering  teeth  and  trembling  limbs,  I 
laughed  —  I  had  to  laugh. 

But  the  worst  of  it  was  that  I  had  to  go  in  again, 
and  also  go  clean  under  water  for  a  horrible  quarter 
minute  to  recover  the  rifle,  after  I  had  located  it 
with  my  foot ;  for  no  consideration  would  have  in- 
duced me  to  leave  it  there.  Then  I  clambered  out 
once  more,  and  groaning  and  shivering  and  shed- 
ding water  every  jump,  ran  and  walked  and  stag- 
gered the  best  way  I  could  to  the  farm-house,  where 
I  had  a  hot  drink  and  a  sleep  in  thick  blankets 
while  my  clothes  were  thoroughly  dried.  That  was 
finally  accomplished  late  in  the  afternoon,  but 
whether  or  no  it  is  possible  to  drive  a  ball  through 
five  turkeys  in  line —  I  just  dinna  ken! 


CdDILED 
TTIffiAIIILo 


ALTHOUGH  the  "king  of  American  game"  un- 
questionably is  that  grim  ruffian,  the  grizzly  bear 
(Ursus  horribilis),  yet  he  is  by  no  means  the  most 
desirable  of  our  big  game  as  an  object  of  pursuit. 
To  the  average  sportsman  the  chase  of  the  grizzly 
would  be  about  as  enjoyable  a  proceeding  as  a  severe 
day's  toil  at  hod-carrying  followed  by  a  frightful 
nightmare.  Ursus  horribilis  is  bad  medicine  if 
tackled  in  his  mountain  domain,  and  only  the  keenest 
of  Nimrods  ever  penetrate  to  the  lonely  wilds  over 
which  he  rules  supreme.  True,  quite  a  number  of 
sportsmen  are  possessed  of  grizzly  skins  and  proudly 
display  them  as  trophies  of  their  prowess  afield ;  but, 
if  the  whole  truth  were  known,  in  many  cases  we 
would  find  that  some  Western  bravo,  or  professional 
or  Indian  hunter,  actually  slew  the  bears  from  whence 
the  trophies  came.  United  States  currency  bags 
more  bearskins  in  Western  wilds  than  do  all  the 
gentlemen  sportsmen's  rifles  put  together. 

The  same  might  truthfully  be  said  concerning  the 
obtaining  of  many  heads  of  elk,  moose,  caribou, 

341 


342  Sporting  Sketches 

mountain  sheep  and  goat;  for  many  more  men 
show  one  or  other  of  these  as  trophy  of  their  own 
winning  than  ever  bore  rifle  through  the  lonely 
ranges  of  moose  and  caribou,  or  climbed  to  the  elk's 
strongholds  or  the  cloud-swept  pasturage  of  sheep 
and  goat. 

That  there  is,  however,  a  stanch  fraternity  of  good 
men  and  true  —  iron-nerved,  hardy  fellows  —  who 
find  the  purest  enjoyment  of  their  lives  in  the  pur- 
suit of  big  game,  goes  without  saying.  Such  men 
love  the  rifle  and  the  difficulties  and  dangers  ever 
attendant  upon  its  use  on  legitimate  game.  They 
penetrate  to  the  uttermost  parts  of  the  earth  to  gratify 
their  thirst  for  adventure ;  they  toil  like  galley-slaves, 
endure  pain,  pestilence,  and  famine,  battle  and  pos- 
sibly sudden  death  —  in  fine,  willingly  brave  all  those 
evils  which  stay-at-homes  pray  to  be  delivered  from. 
This  love  of  adventure  and  dangerous  sport  is  beyond 
doubt  a  valuable  trait  in  our  national  character. 
It  encourages  self-reliance,  courage,  judgment,  and 
rugged  health,  helps  to  build  up  a  race  of  manly 
men,  and  very  frequently  contributes  invaluable  in- 
formation concerning  the  resources,  etc.,  of  little- 
known  regions;  for  the  successful  hunter  of  big 
game  must  be  a  close  observer,  and  as  often  as  not 
he  is  a  man  of  influence  when  at  home,  whose  state- 
ments are  respected  whenever  he  describes  whither 
his  quest  of  adventure  led  him  and  what  he  saw  by 
the  way.  Something  of  the  spirit  of  the  Viking,  of 
Columbus,  Cartier,  Standish,  of  the  many  iron  men 
of  sea  and  land  whose  names  glitter  like  stars  through 
the  sombre  clouds  of  early  Amerjcan  history,  lingers 
with  us  yet,  and  certainly  will  not  die  before  the  final 


A  Cold  Trail  343 

disappearance  of  our  big  game.  Yet,  despite  the 
fierce  excitement  and  triumph  of  facing  and  slay- 
ing dangerous  cat  or  plantigrade,  it  is  questionable 
if  there  is  not  more  genuine  sport  to  be  found  in  the 
chase  of  such  animals  as  the  greater  cervidce,  which 
seldom  inflict  any  serious  injury  upon  their  pursuer. 

Possessing  the  strength  of  two  horses  and  the 
malevolence  of  two  devils,  grizzly  old  Ephraim  is 
a  dangerous  antagonist,  ready  to  maul  all  intruders 
at  the  shortest  notice;  but  his  pursuit  seldom  or 
never  calls  forth  the  exercise  of  the  finer  principles 
of  huntercraft.  While  an  encounter  with  him  may 
thoroughly  test  human  courage  and  nerve,  he  does 
not  fear  man  sufficiently  to  demand  either  practised 
trailing  or  perfected  woodcraft  in  the  man  who  desires 
a  close  view  of  his  rusty  hide.  Though  he  generally 
avoids  the  encounter,  and  not  infrequently  actually 
flees  from  it,  he  does  not  possess  that  instinctive 
dread  of  man  which  characterizes  the  whole  deer 
tribe ;  nor  does  he,  as  the  latter  do,  use  any  art  to 
conceal  his  trail  or  himself.  Should  he  run,  'twill 
not  be  far;  rather  will  he  go  shambling  off  to  his 
stronghold  in  a  defiant  sort  of  style,  as  though  his 
discretion  and  his  valor  were  engaged  in  a  doubtful 
struggle  for  supremacy. 

A  rash  move  on  the  part  of  his  enemy,  one  touch 
of  lead,  or  the  ping  of  a  harmless  ball  past  him,  may 
rouse  the  lightly  shackled  devil  in  him  —  and  then 
for  war ! 

But  when  a  moose,  elk,  caribou,  or  even  deer  or 
turkey  is  the  object  of  the  sportsman's  quest,  how 
different  are  the  conditions  and  how  much  more 
vague  the  possibilities !  Keen  eyes,  and  keener 


344  Sporting  Sketches 

nostrils  and  ears,  ever  watch  the  backward  trail,  or 
sift  the  telltale  air  for  the  faintest  evidence  of 
danger;  cunning  brains,  quickened  by  an  irresistible 
dread  of  man,  evolve  schemes  of  doubling  and  dodg- 
ing and  crafty  concealment ;  and  strong,  fleet  limbs, 
that  can  laugh  at  miles  of  heavy  going,  are  ever 
ready  to  bear  their  owner  far  from  the  dreaded 
pursuer  creeping  through  the  cover. 

More  often  than  not,  the  sportsman's  toil  is  all  in 
vain.  After  exercising  the  perfection  of  his  craft  and 
calling  forth  all  his  reserves  of  skill  gained  in  years  of 
experience,  after  enduring  for  hours  the  long  agony 
of  hope  deferred,  at  last,  when  the  hard-earned  op- 
portunity is  almost  grasped,  some  totally  unexpected 
combination  of  "  hard  luck  "  —  a  stumble,  a  misstep,  a 
sudden  shifting  of  the  breeze,  the  deflection  of  a 
bullet  by  an  unseen  twig,  or  one  or  other  of  the 
many  things  which  can  mar  a  still-hunter's  success  — 
intervenes,  and  naught  perhaps  remains  but  a  toil- 
some tramp  of  miles  before  camp  is  reached. 

Nor  is  the  chase  of  such  quarry  altogether  devoid  of 
personal  danger.  The  cervidce  may  be  timid  animals 
enough  as  a  general  rule,  but  they  can  fight  like 
demons  under  certain  conditions,  and  when  fairly  at 
bay,  their  strength  and  agility  make  them  exceed- 
ingly dangerous.  Even  a  male  Virginia  deer,  if 
wounded  and  thoroughly  angered,  is  no  mean 
antagonist  for  a  strong  man  to  face.  His  sharp 
fore  feet  cut  like  daggers,  and  one  of  his  lightning- 
like  blows,  fairly  planted,  would  probably  maim  or 
mark  a  man  for  life.  A  bull  moose  or  caribou,  if 
wounded  or  too  hard  pressed ,  in  deep  snow,  will 
fight  in  short  order,  and  woe  betide  the  man  who 


A  Cold  Trail  345 

fails  to  promptly  reach  a  friendly  tree  if  he  does  not 
drop  the  charging  bull  in  his  tracks ! 

Grizzly  Ephraim  himself  might  not  maul  a  man 
worse  than  would  either  bull  moose  or  caribou,  if 
the  enraged  beast  ever  got  at  close  quarters  with  his 
foe.  The  first  to  take  effect  of  the  shower  of  whiz- 
zing blows  sure  to  be  delivered  by  the  fore  limbs 
would  knock  the  sporting  instinct  so  far  out  of  a  man 
that  he  wouldn't  recognize  it,  should  it  ever  happen 
to  find  its  way  back.  And  a  bull  elk  —  but  any  one 
who  has  followed  an  elk  knows  its  strength  and 
quickness,  and  one  glance  at  the  tremendous  forest 
of  dagger-pointed  tines  upon  Milord's  shapely 
head  will  suggest  its  possibilities. 

Aside  from  the  somewhat  remote  chance  of  being 
attacked  by  one  of  these  animals,  the  still-hunter, 
being  alone,  is  continually  exposed  to  dangers  of 
falls  among  rough  rocks,  broken  limbs,  sprained 
ankles,  and  also  of  getting  thoroughly  well  lost  in  a 
wilderness,  where  he  might  not  meet  a  man  in  six 
months.  In  fact,  still-hunting  moose,  elk,  or  caribou 
is  emphatically  hard  work.  Its  great  charm  lies  in 
the  fact  that  it  is  a  fair  test  of  accomplished  wood- 
craft and  human  endurance  versus  animal  powers  of 
a  very  high  order,  aided  by  almost  tireless  strength 
and  speed. 

The  caribou  is  a  keen-nosed,  shy,  fast-trotting, 
sturdy  fellow,  and  right  worthy  game  for  any  man's 
rifle.  Two  varieties  of  this  species  —  the  woodland 
and  the  barren-ground  caribou  — are  best  known  to 
sportsmen.  The  woodland  variety  is  found  in  Maine 
and  certain  extreme  northern  portions  of  the  United 
States,  notably  about  the  head  waters  of  the  Missis- 


346  Sporting  Sketches 

sippi  River  and  in  the  extreme  north  of  Idaho.  The 
barren-ground  caribou  does  not  generally  range  so 
far  south  as  the  international  boundary.  In  Canada 
caribou  are  much  more  distributed.  They  are  very 
plentiful  in  Newfoundland,  scarce  in  Nova  Scotia, 
more  numerous  in  New  Brunswick,  abundant  in  Que- 
bec and  Labrador,  and  fair  numbers  of  them  haunt 
the  wilds  of  northern  Ontario  (especially  the  north 
shore  of  Lake  Superior)  and  portions  of  Manitoba. 
In  British  Columbia  they  abound  among  the  moun- 
tains, and  not  infrequently  great  herds  are  seen 
defiling  from  some  canon  or  moving  down  some 
mountain  side  in  Indian  file,  and  looking  at  a  dis- 
tance like  a  pack-train. 

The  best  caribou  shooting  may  be  had  in  New- 
foundland and  British  Columbia,  but  Quebec  and 
north  Ontario  yet  offer  good  sport  to  those  who 
like  roughing  it. 

During  one  winter  I  was  temporarily  located  at  a 
point  on  the  magnificent  north  shore  of  Lake  Supe- 
rior, my  companion  being  a  half-breed  hunter  who 
bore  a  resonant  Indian  title  too  long  for  insertion  in 
these  pages.  When  he  wanted  to  travel  light,  he 
bore  the  name  of  "Jo,"  which  will  answer  for  the 
present.  It  was  cold  up  there  in  the  icy  breath  of 
the  Great  Inland  Sea,  but  we  were  snug  enough  in 
an  old  railway  construction  log  camp,  and  had  fairly 
good  sport  with  grouse,  filling  up  time  attending 
to  Jo's  lines  of  traps.  Between  Superior  and  the 
"  height  of  land  "  is  a  perfect  network  of  lakes  and 
streams,  large  and  small ;  the  country  is  very  rough 
and  rocky,  varied  with  great  barrens,  muskegs,  and 
beaver-meadows.  Vast  portions  are  densely  forested, 


A  Cold  Trail  347 

and  others  carry  only  ghostly,  scattered  "  rampikes," 
showing  where  fires  have  swept.  Our  headquarters 
was  the  log  camp  referred  to,  but  we  had  a  tem- 
porary camp  at  the  end  of  a  line  of  traps  some  ten 
miles  inland,  near  the  head  of  a  chain  of  small  lakes, 
famous  in  the  annals  of  the  fur  trade.  From  it, 
westward,  extended  an  immense  barren  for  mile  after 
mile,  bounded  by  a  gray-blue  wall  of  forest. 

One  night,  while  we  were  at  the  little  camp,  a 
heavy  fall  of  snow  re-dressed  the  hard-featured  land- 
scape, and  Jo  and  I  fell  to  discussing  the  chance 
for  caribou.  About  daylight  we  turned  out,  and  Jo 
stood  for  a  few  moments  reading  the  sky  and  sweep- 
ing the  barren  with  those  marvellous  aboriginal  eyes 
of  his,  which  could  count  a  band  of  animals  farther 
than  I  could  see  them.  Presently  he  grunted  softly 
and  exclaimed :  — 

"  Dar  um  car'boo !  "  and  pointed  westward. 

I  looked  long  and  earnestly,  and  at  last  made  out 
a  distant  object  moving  slowly  over  the  snowy 
barren.  Getting  the  glass,  I  focussed  on  it  and  dis- 
covered that  it  was  indeed  a  caribou  —  a  lone  bull 
evidently,  as  no  more  could  be  found. 

After  hurriedly  feeding,  we  stuffed  our  pockets 
with  bread  and  meat,  felt  that  matches,  pipes,  and 
"  baccy "  were  in  their  places,  donned  our  snow- 
shoes,  and  started  in  the  direction  of  our  vanished 
game. 

"  Car'boo  all  right ;  feed  day  on  moss.  Bymeby 
find  um  more  car'boo,"  said  Jo,  and  I  guessed  that 
he  liked  the  prospect. 

It  was  a  cold,  gray  day;  a  sharp  breeze  blew 
directly  across  the  barren,  and  now  and  then  a  few 


348  Sporting  Sketches 

snowflakes  sifted  down,  hinting  of  another  down- 
fall, though  there  was  already  more  snow  than  we 
wanted.  But  there  was  little  danger  of  anything 
serious,  and  we  didn't  trouble  about  the  weather. 
After  tramping  for  about  three  miles  Jo  discovered 
the  tracks  of  the  caribou,  but  the  beast  itself  was 
not  in  sight. 

Jo  decided  that  he  would  work  across  the  barren 
in  case  the  game  had  doubled  on  its  course,  and 
leave  me  to  follow  the  track.  "  Me  go  'cross,  look 
'long  um  tree.  You  run  track,  bymeby  mebbe  you 
find  um  car'boo,"  and  he  waved  his  hand,  indicating 
that  he  would  cross  and  then  scout  along  the  woods 
on  the  farther  side. 

I  moved  rapidly,  while  Jo  was  in  the  open,  being 
anxious  to  get  far  enough  in  advance  of  him  to  fore- 
stall all  possibility  of  his  wind  reaching  the  game 
before  I  got  within  range.  I  had  followed  the  track 
until  it  was  nearly  noon,  keeping  a  sharp  lookout 
ahead,  before  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  bull  brows- 
ing near  the  edge  of  the  woods.  A  long  look 
through  the  glass  told  me  that  he  was  a  magnificent 
specimen,  bearing  a  particularly  fine  set  of  antlers, 
and  that  he  was  feeding  near  cover  which  promised 
a  comparatively  easy  approach  to  within  certain 
range. 

To  obtain  this  splendid  trophy  was  my  firm  re- 
solve, if  patient,  skilful  "  creeping "  counted  for 
anything.  Working  carefully  well  to  leeward,  the 
shelter  of  the  dense  timber  was  at  last  safely  gained 
at  a  point  some  half  mile  from  the  game.  I  had 
already  put  in  a  lot  of  hard  work,  and  was  half 
wearied,  but  the  golden  prospect  sustained  me. 


A  Cold  Trail  349 

Once  safe  in  cover,  the  shoes  were  removed,  and, 
gliding,  stealing,  flitting  shadow-like  from  tree  to 
tree,  now  crouching  in  the  line  of  a  boulder,  now 
crawling  and  wriggling  painfully  over  a  snowy  open 
patch  of  moss,  I  at  last  gained  the  edge  of  the  tim- 
ber within  a  hundred  and  seventy-five  yards  of  my 
meat. 

He  was  standing  with  his  rump  to  me,  and  his 
nose  occasionally  sought  the  moss,  only  to  be  raised 
in  a  moment  and  thrust  into  the  wind  while  the 
gentleman  chewed  a  mouthful.  About  halfway 
between  us  was  a  goodly  clump  of  brush,  overgrow- 
ing some  scattered  boulders,  while  the  space  between 
my  shelter  and  the  brush  was  filled  with  little  hum- 
mocks and  hollows,  showing  where  the  low  growth, 
moss,  etc.,  upheld  the  snow.  If  I  once  gained  the 
brush,  and  nerves  kept  steady,  he  should  drop  in  his 
tracks. 

I  hesitated  for  a  moment  between  waiting  for  a 
broadside  shot  from  where  I  was,  or  attempting  to 
crawl  to  the  brush,  then  got  down  on  hands  and 
knees  and  began  the  difficult  journey.  The  hum- 
mocks were  smaller  and  hollows  shallower  when 
reached  than  they  had  seemed,  and  when  halfway 
across  the  dangerous  space  it  became  a  question  of 
wriggling  along  a-la-serpent.  In  this  position  the 
caribou  was  invisible,  but  I  had  faith  in  the  wind, 
and  was  wriggling  doggedly  forward,  when  from  a 
clump  of  moss  not  twenty  feet  from  my  nose  a  grouse 
walked  forth,  clucking  softly  to  itself  in  regard  to  my 
probable  business. 

Here  was  a  pretty  position.  Of  course  I  didn't 
dare  flush  the  grouse,  for  fear  of  alarming  the  caribou, 


350  Sporting  Sketches 

and  for  long,  agonizing  moments  I  lay  there  in 
the  snow  staring  at  that  infernal  bird,  while  it  eyed 
me  dreamily,  and  chuckled  in  an  exasperatingly  com- 
miserating fashion,  until  the  cramp-knot  in  my  leg 
grew  hard  as  a  base-ball,  and  I  fumed  and  raged  and 
groaned  inwardly.  At  last  the  fool-bird  satisfied  its 
curiosity  and  trotted  demurely  away,  and,  when  it 
had  got  to  a  safe  distance,  I  straightened  my  cramp 
and  wriggled  on  to  the  tuft  whence  the  grouse  had 
come. 

Inch  by  inch  I  raised  my  head,  until  a  clear  view 
was  possible  of  the  bull's  feeding  ground  —  he  had 
vanished  as  though  the  earth  had  swallowed  him! 
Hastily  glancing  up  the  barren,  I  caught  sight  of 
him  walking  smartly  along,  a  good  four  hundred 
yards  away.  He  was  not  alarmed ;  he  had  neither 
heard,  seen,  nor  winded  me.  He  had  merely  decided 
to  move  along.  It  was  one  of  those  maddening 
brute  whims  that  checkmate  the  still-hunter.  I  ex- 
amined the  rifle  cover  to  make  sure  that  all  was 
right.  Then,  after  a  good  stretch  to  ease  my  cramped 
muscles,  I  watched  the  bull  and  nursed  my  hard 
luck. 

But  chance  favored  me  in  the  next  move.  The 
caribou,  after  going  about  half  a  mile,  turned  across 
the  barren  and  headed  for  the  timber  on  the  farther 
side,  at  the  same  time  edging  slightly  in  my  direc- 
tion. This  course  kept  him  well  to  windward,  and 
when  he  finally  approached  the  distant  cover,  I  again 
started  for  him. 

It  was  a  long,  hard  task  to  cross  the  barren  in  a 
crouching  position,  but  finally,  I  managed  to  get 
behind  him  safely  and  followed  the  track.  I  was 


A  Cold  Trail  351 

now  very  tired,  for  the  shoeing  was  heavy,  but  the 
chase  was  leading  homeward.  I  was  mad  all  through 
and  game  to  fight  it  out  on  that  line  till  darkness 
came.  Presently  it  began  to  snow,  and  in  half  an 
hour  the  air  was  thick  with  soft-falling  flakes.  This 
was  in  my  favor,  save  that  I  sometimes  lost  sight  of 
the  bull,  only  to  rediscover  him  walking  steadily 
along,  headed  direct  for  camp.  My  only  hope 
was  that  he  might  halt  to  feed.  He  was  going 
about  as  fast  as  I  could,  and  so  for  two  good  hours 
we  reeled  off  the  miles  at  an  exercising  gait. 

At  last  the  snow  almost  ceased,  but  the  air  was 
darkening  fast,  and  I  guessed  we  must  be  within 
short  distance  of  camp.  While  I  was  endeavoring 
to  figure  out  my  exact  whereabouts,  the  bull  halted 
in  an  open  space,  bordered  on  my  side  by  clumps  of 
good  cover,  and  began  to  feed.  My  weariness  was 
forgotten  in  a  moment;  luck  had  turned  my  way 
at  last,  for  he  was  in  perhaps  the  best  position 
for  me  that  he  could  have  chosen  on  the  whole 
barren. 

Sneaking  rapidly  on  as  far  as  was  safe,  I  once 
again  doffed  shoes  and  got  down  on  hands  and  knees 
and  crawled,  and  crawled,  and  crawled,  until  the 
cover  was  gained,  and  my  victim  stood  broadside  on, 
not  eighty  yards  away.  He  was  feeding,  and  had  no 
more  idea  that  I  was  near  than  I  had  of  shouting. 
Carefully  I  rose  to  my  knees  and  waited  one  mo- 
ment to  pull  myself  together  for  the  shot  that  must 
needs  decide  the  matter.  A  last  glance  at  the  dis- 
tance, and  at  the  sight  to  make  certain  that  it  was  at 
the  lowest  notch,  and  I  thought  to  myself :  — 

"  Now,  my  son,  I'll  just  settle  for  all  this  tramp. 


352  Sporting  Sketches 

If  I  don't  drop  you  —  "  "  Whang  !  "  The  roar  of  a 
rifle  sounded  from  a  clump  to  my  left,  a  stream  of 
fiery  smoke  shot  from  the  brush,  the  bull  gave  a 
tremendous  lunge  forward  and  went  down  in  a 
heap. 

For  some  seconds  I  was  petrified  with  amaze- 
ment; then  leaped  to  my  feet,  prepared  to  do  I 
hardly  knew  what.  From  the  brush  near  by  rose 
a  lank  figure,  a  coppery  face  peered  forth,  and  an 
unmistakable  voice  muttered,  "  Gess  I  down  um 
car'boo ! " 

"  Jo !  You  smoke-tanned  idiot,  I've  a  good  notion 
to  put  a  ball  through  you !  " 

Jo  started  with  as  much  surprise  as  his  kind  ever 
show;  then  his  broad  mouth  spread  in  a  diabolical 
grin,  for  he  guessed  every  incident  of  the  story. 

"  Me  no  see  you.  See  um  car'boo  cum  long. 
Me  hide,  tink  mebbe  kill  um  car'boo.  You  lynx, 
you  creep-creep  —  me  no  tink  you  chase  um  car'- 
boo." And  that  was  all  the  comfort  I  got,  outside 
of  the  head  and  feet,  which  were  all  I  wanted  of  the 
bull. 

Later  in  the  evening,  when  I  told  Jo  of  the  all- 
day  chase  and  where  I  had  been,  he  grunted  and 
said :  "  Chase  um  car'boo  berry  long  time  —  twen- 
too  mile  dat  way  an  back." 

"Yes,  and  I  crawled  quarter  of  it,  confound 
you ! " 

"  Um,  dat  so  ?  Me  go  two,  three,  four  mile,  look 
at  trap,  den  run  back  to  mend  shoe.  Me  stop  by 
fire,  bymeby  get  um  car'boo." 

"  Yes,  after  I  chase  him  twenty:two  miles  for  you, 
you  old  squaw !  " 


A  Cold  Trail  353 

A  chuckling  grunt  proved  that  Jo  realized  the 
humor  of  the  thing  in  full,  and  the  way  his  eyes 
twinkled  and  the  wrinkles  curved  round  his  silent 
mouth  almost  threw  me  into  fits,  for  there  was  no 
use  in  kicking  against  fate. 


2A 


TTIKIIE 

(D)IF  TTUfflE 

WE  were  in  the  caribou  country.  Far  north, 
wrapped  in  his  white  shroud,  lay  Mistassini  sleeping 
through  the  long  white  silence  until  Wa-Wa  called 
him.  Nearer,  to  the  left,  lay  the  Big  Flat  Water  drows- 
ing under  a  pallid  coverlid  a  fathom  thick.  Over  all 
sprang  an  arch  of  mysterious  gray,  that  seemed  to 
draw  in  and  narrow  slowly,  silently,  steadily,  while 
we  looked.  Far  as  we  could  see,  stretching  in  one 
soundless  cordon  until  they  dwindled  to  mere 
mounds  in  the  distance,  stood  what  had  been 
sturdy  conifers.  Now  they  were  tents  —  drear 
domes  of  death  they  seemed,  pitched  there  by  the 
army  of  the  Arctic  for  a  bitter  bivouac.  We  stood 
before  the  small  cabin  and  looked  eastward.  No 
sign  of  the  sun,  although  he  had  been  up  an  hour. 
Somewhere  behind  the  sad  gray  veil  he  was  shin- 
ing with  the  wonderful  brilliancy  of  the  North,  but 
that  day  he  would  cast  no  velvet  shadows  for  us. 

"  Well,  wot  ye  tink  ?  "  inquired  Jo. 

I  hardly  knew  what  to  say.  Something  in  the 
feel  of  the  air,  in  the  pervading  grayness,  coun- 
selled caution,  yet  here  was  the  last  day  of  my 
leave,  and  as  yet  the  twelve-gauge  had  not  spoken 
to  the  game  I  particularly  wanted,  —  the  ptarmigan 
in  its  full  winter  plumage. 

354 


Tbe  WWe  Wolf  of  tbe  North          355 

Jo  waited  with  all  the  patience  of  the  Indian 
cross  which  browned  his  skin  and  blackened  his 
long,  straight  hair.  What  he  thought  of  the  pros- 
pect did  not  matter,  nor  would  he  tell  —  his  kind 
never  do  until  after  it  is  all  over.  All  he  wanted 
out  of  me  was  a  decision  one  way  or  the  other.  If 
I  said  "  Go,"  he  would  lead  away  north  without  a 
word  of  comment ;  if  I  said  "  No,"  he  would  merely 
go  into  the  cabin  and  lie  and  smoke.  Perhaps 
toward  night  he  might  say,  "  We'd  best  gone."  He 
was  a  picturesque-looking  tramp  in  the  gay  garb 
of  the  lumberman.  How  much  he  had  on  under- 
neath I  could  only  guess,  but  it  was  quite  enough 
to  spoil  the  outline  of  what  was  naturally  a  beautiful, 
lean,  strong  figure.  On  his  head,  six  feet  from  his 
heels,  was  a  shocking  bad  hat,  a  black  felt  he  had 
picked  up  somewhere.  Bad  as  it  was,  it  stuck  on 
and  shaded  his  eyes.  His  long  hair  protected  his 
ears  and  that  was  sufficient.  Only  his  small,  narrow 
feet  were  Indian.  They  were  hidden  in  as  pretty  a 
pair  of  moccasins  as  I  had  seen.  But  a  glance  at 
his  face  told  the  story.  Somewhere  not  far  back 
in  Jo's  pedigree  lay  the  cross,  and  in  this  case  the 
blending  of  the  blood  of  the  indomitable  voyageur 
with  that  of  the  redskin  had  produced  a  grand  man, 

—  game,  untiring,  wizard  of  woodland,  a  child  till 
the  hot  blood  was  roused ;  an  Indian  when  the  devil 
was  unchained. 

For  a  few  moments  I  hesitated.  If  I  could  only 
translate  the  flash  of  the  wonderful  aboriginal  eyes 
or  guess  what  lay  behind  the  mystical  bronze  mask, 

—  but   that  was  impossible.     Once  more  my  eyes 
turned  northward.     The  grayness  seemed  a  trifle 


356  Sporting  Sketches 

paler,  and  a  puff  of  air,  keen  as  if  from  the  very 
Pole,  met  me.  "Looks  like  snow  —  too  cold  to 
snow,"  I  muttered;  then  added  louder:  — 

"  We'll  tryit." 

The  black  eyes  twinkled  an  instant  with  an  in- 
describable flash,  then  he  turned  into  the  cabin.  As 
I  followed  I  heard  him  give  utterance  to  a  peculiar 
low  grunt,  which  might  have  meant  anything  or 
nothing.  I  would  have  given  something  to  have 
been  able  to  translate  it,  for  beyond  question  my 
decision  had  raised  or  lowered  his  estimation  of 
my  woodcraft  and  general  qualifications.  I  ac- 
quired wisdom  later. 

Within  five  minutes  we  were  ready.  Jo  had 
carefully  watched  the  flask,  sandwich,  shells,  and 
tobacco  go  into  my  pockets,  and  again  had  grunted 
softly  when  I  examined  my  matchbox.  Then,  with- 
out a  word,  he  led  the  way  on  the  creaking,  netted 
shoes  which  alone  rendered  walking  a  possibility. 
He  was  a  mighty  pace-maker.  Snow-shoeing  is  the 
hardest  of  hard  work,  and  Jo  certainly  showed  me 
all  there  was  in  it.  Before  half  a  mile  had  been 
covered  he  had  me  fumbling  with  mittenless  hand 
at  the  unruly  button  at  my  throat,  and  by  the  time 
a  mile  lay  behind  my  forehead  was  damp  in  spite  of 
an  air  that  nipped  like  a  mink-trap.  At  length  we 
reached  the  edge  of  a  tongue  of  fir- woods,  where  Jo 
paused.  Before  spread  a  mile-broad  open,  where 
some  old  fire  had  bitten  to  the  bone.  In  summer 
this  was  an  artistic  expanse  of  lichened  rocks,  with 
low,  lean  scrub  between ;  now  it  spread  like  a  frozen 
sea,  with  stiffened  billows  half  buried  in  purest  snow. 
For  minutes  he  stood,  while  his  eyes  scanned  every 


The  Wbite  Wolf  of  the  North          357 

yard  of  white  from  his  feet  to  the  irregular  sky- 
line. 

"  Mebbe  car'boo,"  he  muttered,  as  he  rolled  his 
eyes  toward  a  slight  depression  which  I  should  have 
passed  by.  Then  he  stooped  and  thrust  his  hand 
into  the  snow. 

"Big  bull  —  old,"  was  all  the  comment  he  made 
as  he  straightened  and  again  led  the  way. 

Evidently  the  open  had  no  attraction  for  him,  for 
he  swung  off  to  the  right,  keeping  along  the  edge  of 
the  cover.  Here  what  breeze  there  was  had  full 
sweep,  and  it  nipped  keenly  at  the  nose,  cheeks, 
and  chin.  Already  my  heavy  mustache  was  burdened 
with  ice,  and  a  certain  caution  about  breathing  had 
developed.  But  Jo  did  not  appear  to  bother  about 
trifles  like  that,  although  his  bronzed  face  did  show 
a  warmer  color.  His  steady,  remorseless  gait  never 
changed,  and  the  rear  view  of  him  suggested  that  he 
was  apt  to  go  on  till  spring.  Nor  was  the  shoeing 
easy.  The  old  snow-shoer  will  understand  what  the 
conditions  meant,  and  while  I  was  in  very  fair  form 
and  no  mean  performer  across  country,  I  thoroughly 
realized  that  there  was  an  iron  man  ahead.  This, 
too,  while  merely  following  a  pace-maker  —  a  very 
different  matter  from  leading. 

It  was  perhaps  an  hour  later  when  he  halted  and 
blew  a  great  cloud  of  steam  from  his  lips.  I  under- 
stood, and  at  once  produced  the  flask  and  poured 
him  a  fair  measure  into  the  metal  cup.  The  good 
stuff  fairly  fell  into  him — but  an  Indian's  an  Indian. 

"  You  no  take  ? "  he  queried,  while  a  surprised 
expression  flitted  across  the  chasm  which  had  en- 
tombed his  share. 


358  Sporting  Sketches 

"  Bad  for  eyes  —  snow  bad  enough  now,"  I  re- 
torted, as  I  put  away  the  flask,  for  Jo's  eyes  seemed 
to  say  that  if  I  didn't  intend  to  take  any,  he  might 
as  well  have  my  share.  But  that  was  not  in  order. 

Instead  of  moving  forward,  he  smiled  and  pointed 
at  the  snow.  "  Thur,"  was  all  he  said. 

I  looked  and  saw  one,  two,  three  —  a  dozen  tiny 
trails,  as  though  elfin  snow-shoers  had  passed  that 
way.  They  were  queer  little  tracks,  roundish,  in- 
distinct, running  in  single  lines,  the  rear  rim  of  one 
almost  overlapping  the  fore  rim  of  another.  Never 
had  I  beheld  the  like.  By  the  size  of  them  their 
makers  should  have  been  of  considerable  weight, 
yet  they  barely  dented  the  snow.  Their  arrange- 
ment was  grouse-like,  and  in  a  moment  I  had  it. 
Nothing  but  the  wonderful  show-shoe  foot  of  the 
ptarmigan  could  leave  a  trail  like  that. 

"  Snow-grouse  —  white  —  eh  ?  "  I  asked. 

He  nodded. 

"  Fresh  —  where'bouts  ?  "  I  continued. 

"  Look  —  look  lot,"  he  replied. 

A  twinkle  in  his  eye  warned  me  that  I  had  better 
be  mighty  careful,  and  I  felt  certain  he  had  already 
seen  the  birds.  But  where?  Standing  perfectly 
still,  I  first  scanned  the  snowy  trees.  Nothing  there. 
Then,  remembering  the  ways  of  the  quail  and  the 
many  times  I  had  detected  birds  upon  the  ground 
ahead  of  the  dogs,  I  began  a  close  scrutiny  of  the 
snow  a  few  yards  ahead.  Presently  a  shiny  ebon 
point  caught  my  eye,  then  a  dull  point  equally 
black  —  then,  as  if  my  eyes  had  suddenly  become 
properly  focussed,  I  made  out  the.soft,  white,  pigeon- 
like  form  of  a  ptarmigan  crouched  upon  the  snow. 


Tbe  White  Wolf  of  the  Nortb          359 

Then  another  and  another  showed,  until  I  could 
plainly  see  seven  birds  in  all.  They  were  from  about 
eight  to  ten  yards  distant,  and  as  motionless  as  so 
many  snowballs,  which  they  greatly  resembled. 

My  right  hand  rose  slowly  to  my  frosted  chops, 
teeth  seized  the  point  of  the  heavy  mitten,  and  the 
bare  hand  slipped  forth  and  closed  upon  the  grip. 
In  five  seconds  the  steaming  hand  felt  the  nip  of 
the  air  and  the  apparently  red-hot  touch  of  metal. 
Then  I  let  the  mitten  fall  from  my  mouth. 

Purr-r-whir-r-bur-r !  The  white  forms  rose  some- 
thing like  quail,  but  lacking  the  hollow  thunder  and 
impetuous  dash  of  the  brave  brown  bird.  Even  as 
the  gun  leaped  to  shoulder  I  realized  that  the  white 
ghosts  were  not  going  so  fast,  but  true  to  old  quail 
training,  the  trigger  finger  worked  as  though  dense 
cover  was  only  two  yards  instead  of  a  mile  away. 
The  first  bird  stopped  —  shattered  —  within  twenty- 
five  yards,  and  the  second  not  more  than  five  yards 
beyond  its  mate,  Jo  grunted  like  a  bull  moose, 
then  dashed  ahead,  and  I  chuckled  as  I  remembered 
that  this  was  the  first  time  he  had  seen  a  "  squaw- 
gun  "  in  action.  But,  instead  of  going  direct  to  the 
birds,  he  chased  on  with  long  strides  to  a  point 
sixty  odd  yards  beyond,  and  stooping,  picked  up  a 
third  ptarmigan  which  had  managed  to  get  into  line 
with  the  second.  This  he  triumphantly  retrieved. 
Beautiful,  snowy  things  they  were,  with  the  cold, 
white  sparks  powdering  their  spotless  covering  and 
sticking  to  the  hair-like  texture  of  the  poor  little 
snow-shoes.  Two  were  perfect  for  mounting,  and 
even  the  shattered  one  might,  with  extra  care,  be 
saved.  So  far,  so  good.  I  had  killed  my  own 


360  Sporting  Sketches 

specimens  and  added  a  new  bird  to  the  score  of  the 
veteran  twelve-gauge. 

I  pocketed  the  birds,  broke  the  gun,  put  in  fresh 
shells,  and,  on  the  strength  of  an  easy  but  clean  kill, 
produced  the  flask.  As  Jo  took  his  dose,  I  noticed 
his  face.  Instead  of  the  customary  grin,  it  showed 
grave  and  solemn  as  an  owl's.  The  sparkle  of  the 
eye,  too,  was  missing,  and  when  the  sight  of  a  drink 
didn't  make  Jo's  optics  gleam,  something  surely  was 
amiss. 

"  You  foller  dem  ?  "  he  tersely  queried,  as  I  made 
a  significant  motion.  I  was  somewhat  astonished. 

"  Bad  luck  kill  dem  — look  dur !  " 

Something  in  his  voice  startled  me,  and  my  eyes 
flashed  northward,  whither  his  long  arm  pointed. 
Under  great  stress  a  man  sometimes  thinks  of 
whimsical  things.  What  I  thought  was  — "  I've 
killed  three  pups  of  the  North  Pole,  and  here's  the 
whole  frapped  Arctic  Circle  coming  south  to  see 
about  it ! " 

Rolling  steadily  down,  like  snowy  surf,  mountains 
high,  came  a  squall  the  like  of  which  I  had  never 
seen.  One  glance  was  sufficient.  The  white  mass 
seemed  dense  enough  for  good  shoeing,  and  the  way 
in  which  its  deadly  advance  blotted  out  the  land- 
scape was  absolutely  terrifying.  Under  such  a 
downfall  a  trail  would  not  show  for  a  minute. 

"Come  —  quick!  "said  Jo,  as  he  turned,  and  the 
gleam  in  his  wild  eyes  was  a  solemn  warning. 

I  have  run  in  a  snow-shoe  steeplechase  over  rough 
country,  have  staggered  home,  beaten  and  cooked  to 
a  turn,  after  one  of  those  desperate  efforts  which  fool- 
men  will  make  for  a  pewter  mug,  a  cheer,  and  some 


The  White  Wolf  of  tbe  North          361 

woman's  smile.  I  have  been  "butchered  to  make 
a  Roman  holiday "  on  sliding  seat,  steel  blades, 
spiked  shoon,  and  other  modern  refinements,  while 
shrill  voices  rang  and  dainty  thumbs  turned  down 
(they  all  despise  a  loser!);  I  have  been  guilty  of 
that  crime  of  errors,  getting  into  the  "  gym  "  arena 
with  the  wrong  man,  but  of  all  the  bucketings  ever 
I  got,  Jo  gave  me  the  worst !  Peace  to  his  ashes 
—  he  was  a  scared  Indian  and  he  had  no  better 
sense! 

Only  those  who  have  chased  a  smoke-tanned  fire- 
water worshipper  on  snow-shoes,  and  about  two 
jumps  ahead  of  a  blizzard,  can  understand.  I  knew 
that  he  knew  the  trail,  and  I  vowed  that  if  he  lost 
me,  it  was  my  fault.  All  I  could  see  was  his  dim 
back  rising  and  falling  in  mighty  effort  —  then  we 
ran  for  it  in  dead  earnest.  No  picking  the  way  — 
no  anything  but  chase  —  chase  —  chase.  He  never 
hesitated  nor  slackened,  and  all  the  while  the  snow 
thickened  and  the  wind  shouted  louder  and  louder 
at  the  death  song.  At  last,  with  a  roar  and  a  wild 
horizontal  rush  of  snow,  the  full  strength  of  the 
storm  struck  us.  Then  we  heard  the  true  howl  of 
the  White  Wolf  of  the  North,  as  the  men  in  igloos 
hear  it  when  the  sea  solidifies.  Mercifully  it  was  at 
our  backs,  —  any  other  point  would  have  meant  — 
but  there's  cold  comfort  in  that!  I  knew  that  if 
Jo  once  got  out  of  sight,  I  might  not  be  found  till 
spring;  and  winters  are  long  on  the  North  Shore- 
Besides,  I  had  things  to  attend  to  later,  —  my  people 
to  see,  and  my  ptarmigan  to  mount,  —  so  I  chased 
on.  And  ever  before  me  was  the  snowy  back,  ever  in 
my  ears  the  White  Wolf's  howl,  and  in  my  breast 


362  Sporting  Sketches 

the  tortured  engine  pumping  to  bursting  strain.  I 
cursed  the  hampering  clothes  and  the  buttons  that 
seemed  ever  drawing  tighter,  the  thongs  that  cut 
deep  now,  and  the  nets  that  had  to  be  swung  true 
while  they  felt  like  lead  to  the  feet. 

At  last  came  the  blessed  "  second  wind,"  and  none 
too  soon,  for  it  found  me  rocking.  The  snow-padded 
back  was  ten  yards  ahead  now,  rising  and  falling 
with  the  same  old  motion.  Ever  and  anon  a  savage 
swirl  would  hide  it  in  a  blur  of  white,  but  I  was 
going  easier  and  felt  I  could  close  the  gap  at  will. 
Presently  it  vanished,  and  on  the  instant  of  its  dis- 
appearance I  realized  my  danger  and  spurted  vigor- 
ously. Before  I  had  time  to  think,  Jo  was  again  in 
view,  and  I  mentally  vowed  that  not  for  my  life 
would  I  let  him  out  of  my  sight.  Indian-like,  he  had 
no  idea  of  halting  or  looking  round  to  see  how  I 
fared.  I  was  to  follow  —  if  I  failed  to  do  so,  that 
was  my  affair.  When  an  Indian  gets  scared,  he's 
the  worst  scared  thing  imaginable;  and  Jo  was  going 
to  the  cabin  by  the  shortest  route.  If  I  failed  to  make 
it,  he'd  hunt  for  me  —  after  the  weather  cleared. 

Through  the  roar  and  the  whine  and  the  icy  fog  of 
it  all  we  pounded  ahead.  First,  an  uneasy  dread  took 
hold  of  me.  Did  Jo  know  whither  he  was  drift- 
ing? Had  his  instinct  for  the  once  failed?  We 
seemed  to  have  covered  an  awfully  long  route. 
Then  another  and  worse  fear  came,  I  was  getting 
tired.  No  mistake  about  that.  No  one  knew 
better  than  their  owner  why  leg  muscles  were  com- 
plaining so.  One  quarter  of  a  mile  farther,  if  we 
had  to  do  so  much,  and  I'd  be  done  so  brown  that  a 
bake-oven  couldn't  tan  me  more." 


The  Wbite  Wolf  of  tbe  North          363 

What  then  ?  I'd  follow  the  trail  as  far  as  I  could, 
then  curl  up.  I  had  the  flask  and  the  infernal 
ptarmigan,  and  I'd  live  on  them  for  two  days  any- 
way. But  the  cold  —  oh!  yes,  the  cold  —  well,  it 
would  freeze  me  stiffer  than  the  North  Pole  in 
twenty  minutes  and  then  —  ?  The  Gray  Wolf 
would  come  and  nuzzle  for  ears  and  nose  and 
fingers  and  they'd  snap  like  icicles  and  he'd  thaw 
them  in  his  steamy  old  paunch  along  with  the  con- 
founded ptarmigan ;  but  his  teeth  would  click  and 
slip  on  the  flint-hard  larger  parts  and  I'd  at  least 
have  the  satisfaction  of  compelling  him  to  wait  for  a 
thaw!  The  rasp  of  a  twig  across  my  cold  nose 
startled  and  hurt  me  so  that  I  roused  from  the  first 
stage  of  the  deadly,  cold-begotten  drowsiness,  and 
dimly  realized  that  I  was  running  into  cover.  The 
edge  of  the  wood !  Yes,  and  there  was  Jo's  track 
and  Jo  himself  just  ahead. 

In  ten  minutes  we  were  in  the  cabin.  Fifteen 
minutes  later  we  had  got  rid  of  snowy  outer  garb 
and  had  looked  upon  something  hot  and  oh !  so 
welcome.  Presently  Jo  raised  his  drawn  face  from 
his  hands  and  said:  — 

"  Bad  to  kill  dem  white  snowbird.  But  you  good 
—  run  like  bull  moose  —  else  los' !  " 

I  muttered  something  —  I  hate  to  try  remember 
what,  for  my  eyes  were  closing  in  utter  weariness. 

And  even  now,  when  the  blizzard  ramps  among 
the  crowded  structures  of  the  great  city,  the  mad 
white  wrath  of  it  reaches  a  sleeper's  ear  and  —  well, 
the  poor  little  wifey  gets  up  and  makes  herself  some 
sort  of  shake-down  on  the  lounge  ! 


<Q>F   TTDHIE 


UNDER  the  general  head  of  "  hare  hunting  "  may  be 
grouped  several  forms  of  a  sport  very  popular  in 
widely  separated  parts  of  the  world.  To  the  Briton, 
the  mere  mention  of  a  hare  calls  up  memories  of  cours- 
ing and  that  blue  ribbon  of  the  sporting  canine  world, 
the  Waterloo  Cup,  which  along  with  other  important 
fixtures  has  for  so  long  aroused  the  enthusiasm  of 
our  brethren  oversea.  Several  European  nations, 
too,  have  their  own  favorite  methods  of  circum- 
venting poor  puss,  but  they  need  not  be  dwelt 
upon. 

Until  a  comparatively  recent  date,  we  had  nothing 
to  compare  with  the  British  sport,  but  the  natural 
advantages  of  vast  tracts  of  our  Middle  West  and 
Far  West  country  were  too  apparent  to  be  long  over- 
looked after  the  tide  of  permanent  settlement  had 
once  fairly  set  westward.  Among  the  most  useful 
classes  of  settlers  were  sturdy  men,  and  not  a  few 
moneyed  men,  from  the  sporting  counties  of  Great 
Britain.  These  men  had  the  characteristic  nomadic 
and  sporting  instincts  strongly  developed  —  in  fact 

364 


In  tbe  Haunts  of  the  Hare  365 

the  promise  of  a  wholesome  freedom  and  unlimited 
sport  was  the  magnet  which  drew  many  of  them  to 
our  West  —  and  once  there,  it  is  not  astonishing 
that  they  promptly  took  advantage  of  their  un- 
equalled opportunity. 

The  instinct  to  tackle  things  which  can  fight,  to 
pursue  things  that  can  run  or  fly,  is  absorbed  by  the 
Briton  with  his  mother's  milk,  and  one  of  his  dearly 
loved  pastimes  is  coursing.  Hence,  he  speedily 
noted  the  possibilities,  so  soon  as  he  became 
acquainted  with  that  weird  brute  Lepus  callotis, 
commonly  termed  the  "  jack-rabbit."  This  creature 
can  run  like  the  wind ;  it  inhabits  the  great  plains, 
which  afford  a  clear  view  and  fine  footing  for  horse 
and  hound,  so  it  was  only  natural  that  coursing  under 
special  rules  to  suit  the  new  field  should  follow. 
How  wonderfully  this  sport  has  flourished  may  be 
learned  from  a  glance  over  the  reports  of  the  many 
important  fixtures  annually  decided.  In  its  own 
smaller  way,  coursing  now  receives  the  same  close 
attention  as  racing.  Representatives  of  the  best 
greyhound  blood  of  Britain  are  to  be  found  at  the 
head  of  many  kennels,  while  the  breeding,  handling, 
and  running  of  the  dogs  are  in  the  hands  of  men  as 
keen  and  clever  as  any  that  ever  sent  out  a  winner 
of  the  storied  blue  ribbon.  That  the  sport  will  con- 
tinue to  flourish  goes  without  saying  —  the  nature 
of  the  Western  country  and  the  temperament  of  its 
people  guarantee  that.  Hawking  the  "jack-rabbit," 
too,  may  yet  become  one  of  our  most  attractive 
pastimes.  I  have  repeatedly  seen  both  falcons  and 
harriers  chase  the  jacks,  and  every  time  the  sight 
called  up  visions  of  trained  hawks  with  all  the  at- 


366  Sporting  Sketches 

tendant  picturesque  and  pleasant  possibilities.  To- 
day, the  outdoor  woman  is  queen,  and  of  a  surety 
hawking  would  give  Diana  a  grand  opportunity  to 
spread  her  conquests  further. 

The  best  of  our  hares  is  the  well-known  fellow  of 
the  East  and  North,  the  northern  hare  (L.  ameri- 
canus),  the  so-called  "  white  rabbit."  He  is  good 
game  in  his  proper  season,  and  he  possesses  the 
great  advantage  over  the  "  jack  "  (possibly  not  from 
his  point  of  view  !)  of  being  also  good  eating.  Child 
of  the  snow  that  he  is,  he  makes  his  home  in  the 
wilds,  fearing  neither  piling  drift  nor  biting  blast. 
He  loves  the  unbroken  forest,  the  snarls  of  tangled 
thicket,  the  twisted  wreckage  of  the  tornado's  path, 
the  dusk  swamps,  soundless  beneath  lonely  hills. 
This  hare,  like  the  beautiful  ptarmigan,  furnishes  an 
interesting  example  of  Nature's  loving  provision  for 
the  welfare  and  safety  of  her  feebler  children  of  the 
North.  In  summer  the  ptarmigan  wears  a  mottled 
coat  which  admirably  blends  with  the  prevailing 
tints  of  the  lichened  rocks  of  its  home.  Upon  the 
approach  of  winter  the  bird's  plumage  gradually 
turns  white,  while  a  growth  of  hair-like  feathers  upon 
the  legs  and  feet  thickens  until  it  forms  the  snow- 
shoe  foot  —  the  best  possible  thing  to  support  the 
bird  upon  snow  and  to  protect  the  feet  from  frost. 
The  hare,  lacking  wings,  requires  better  protection, 
and  Nature  attends  to  it.  During  summer,  the  pre- 
vailing color  of  the  coat  is  a  grayish  brown,  the 
most  inconspicuous  of  tints  among  roots,  rocks, 
shrubs,  and  the  various  surroundings  of  the  breeding 
season.  The  hare's  special  gifts,  without  which  he 
would  speedily  succumb  to  various  foes,  including 


36; 

climate,  are   those  four  valuable  F's  —  foot,  form, 
fleetness,  and  fur. 

Each  and  all  of  these  are  unquestionably  most 
useful  at  times,  but  when  snow  lies  deep  and  loose, 
the  winning  trump  is  the  peculiar  foot.  In  winter 
this  becomes  a  veritable  snow-shoe,  a  truly  marvellous 
contrivance  which  enables  the  comparatively  light 
animal  to  patter  at  will  over  drift  and  level  which 
would  otherwise  hold  him  fast,  a  helpless  prey  to 
rapacious  beast  or  bird  that  chose  to  attack.  Nothing 
better  for  their  purpose  than  his  furry  pads  can  be 
found  among  Nature's  many  marvels.  His  coat,  too, 
plays  an  important  part.  Thin  and  cool  during  the 
heated  term,  as  the  cold  weather  approaches  it 
thickens  apace  until  it  forms  one  of  the  lightest 
and  warmest  of  coverings.  The  wild  men  of  the 
North  were  quick  to  appreciate  its  valuable  features, 
and  wove  strips  of  it  into  the  cosiest  of  wraps.  But 
the  warmth  and  lightness  of  the  coat  are  not  all  of 
its  peculiarities.  Grayish  brown  upon  snow  would 
be  entirely  too  conspicuous,  so  Nature  meets  the 
difficulty  with  another  beautiful  provision.  As  the 
coat  thickens  as  a  guard  against  cold,  it  gradually 
turns  white  to  match  the  increasing  snow.  The 
brown  pales  to  a  cream,  and  the  cream  whitens  till 
only  a  darkish  stripe  down  the  springy  back,  and 
patches  about  the  big  eyes,  remain  to  tell  of  the 
summer  garb.  Soon  these  too  fade,  until  the  hare 
is  pure  white,  or  so  nearly  so  that  he  can  squat  amid 
the  snow  and  so  closely  match  his  surroundings  as  to 
escape  even  practised  eyes.  If  by  chance  discovered, 
he  can  speed  away  upon  his  snow-shoes  and  in  a  few 
bounds  vanish  in  the  snowy  woods,  where  every  log 


368  Sporting  Sketches 

and  stump  is  a  perfect  cover.  This  is  well,  for  in 
addition  to  man  he  has  natural  foes  which  know  not 
mercy.  Chief  among  these  are  the  lynx,  fox,  wolf, 
fisher,  marten,  the  great  horned  and  the  snowy  owls, 
and  other  rapacious  birds.  Other  creatures,  too, 
prey  upon  him  more  or  less  at  their  murderous 
wills,  for  if  once  cornered,  he  offers  no  defence 
whatever. 

Most  of  the  hares  which  not  seldom  glut  our 
winter  markets  are  victims  of  the  snare.  A  few 
are  trapped  in  other  ways,  while  others  are  shot,  but 
their  numbers  are  insignificant  in  comparison  to 
those  which  die  by  the  craftily  placed  wire.  To 
snare  a  hare  is,  of  course,  an  unpardonable  thing 
from  a  sportsman's  point  of  view.  The  habits  of  the 
animal  render  it  such  an  easy  victim  that  only  a 
thoughtless  boy,  or  an  out-and-out  poacher,  would 
bother  himself  over  its  capture.  Like  the  Virginia 
deer,  the  hare  has  regular  runways  along  which  it 
travels  through  its  favorite  swamp  or  other  cover. 
All  the  poacher  has  to  do  is  to  locate  these  runways 
by  the  tracks,  set  a  few  snares,  and  wait  for  the  un- 
fortunate hares  to  do  the  rest.  The  snares  are 
fastened  to  "  twitch-ups  "  — springy  poles,  sufficiently 
long  and  strong  to  lift  a  hare  a  few  feet  off  the 
ground.  The  wretched  victim  sooner  or  later  comes 
hopping  along  the  runway,  his  head  enters  the  noose, 
and  in  an  instant  he  is  jerked  off  his  feet,  then 
hanged  by  the  neck  until  he  is  dead.  The  object 
of  the  spring-pole  is  twofold  —  first,  to  strangle  the 
victim,  and  second,  to  lift  the  body  beyond  the  reach 
of  any  prowling  creature  whida  might  fancy  cold 
hare.  The  whole  business  requires  about  as  much 


In  the  Haunts  of  the  Hare  369 

skill  and  is  about  as  keenly  exciting  as  the  purchase 
of  a  frozen  hare  from  a  city  dealer. 

The  sport  of  sports  with  the  hare  is  to  shoot  him 
ahead  of  smart  hounds,  but  there  is  another  way,  and 
I  have  followed  it  of  a  winter's  day  with  considerable 
pleasure.  It  is  still-hunting,  in  other  words  tracking 
the  hare  to  his  "  form  "  and  shooting  him  as  he  bolts. 
The  man  who  craves  rapid  action  in  his  sport  may 
smile  at  this,  yet  I  have  found  fun,  much  opportunity 
for  interesting  observation,  and  a  lot  of  healthful 
exercise  in  it.  A  still,  bright  day  after  a  snowfall 
is  the  best.  Then  all  tracks  are  fresh  and  all  wood- 
life,  housed  during  the  storm,  is  active.  To  the 
experienced  sportsman  the  work  is  comparatively 
easy,  for  the  trained  eye  sees  the  country  as  one  great 
white  page  with  a  series  of  short  stories  —  some 
pathetic,  many  tragic,  but  all  interesting. 

A  leisurely  start  is  as  good  as  any,  for  wild  life 
sleeps  late  these  white  mornings.  So  somewhere 
about  nine  o'clock  I  strike  across  the  broad  level  of 
a  farm  toward  the  gray  ring  of  woodland.  There  is 
walking  to  be  done,  and  the  costume  is  well  chosen. 
First,  medium-weight,  all-wool  underwear  and  warm, 
home-knit  socks.  Over  this  a  suit  of  gray  corduroy, 
the  trousers  being  roomy  to  the  knee,  thence  fitting 
like  drawers  to  the  ankle,  where  they  are  tied  with 
soft  tape.  Three  smoked-pearl  buttons  at  the  knee 
give  the  appearance  of  knee-breeches.  The  gray 
sweater  and  coat  give  necessary  warmth  and  pocket- 
room.  The  hat  is  corduroy.  The  boots  are  water- 
proof tan,  lacing  to  the  knee.  This  costume  is  neat, 
workmanlike,  and  very  comfortable.  It  would  look 
businesslike  on  top  of  a  good  horse,  and  it  is  first- 

2B 


370  Sporting  Sketches 

rate  for  tramping  in  snow.  The  gun  is  a  hard-shoot- 
ing, featherweight,  modern  arm  —  a  killer  such  as 
our  fathers  never  dreamed  of.  The  dozen  or  so 
little  shells  go  into  one  pocket,  sandwiches  into  a 
second,  pipe  and  "  baccy "  into  a  third,  while  the 
smallest  of  flasks  of  ginger  wine  fits  over  the  hip, 
the  outfit  being  admirably  adapted  to  what  may 
later  prove  a  long  and  cold  tramp. 

The  man  who  still-hunts  a  hare  must  be  a  good 
walker  and  one  of  those  favored  few  who  do  not 
measure  their  pleasure  by  the  amount  of  game 
bagged.  The  time  for  the  sport  is  after  the  regular 
shooting  season,  and  while  it  has  joys  all  its  own,  it 
does  not  appeal  to  men  who  want  to  be  forever  pull- 
ing trigger.  From  three  to  a  half-dozen  hares  would 
mean  a  good  day  with  a  most  liberal  allowance  of 
honest  tramping. 

A  mile  across  country  settles  breakfast  famously, 
and  as  I  reach  the  edge  of  a  low-lying  patch  of  maple 
thicket,  I  feel  in  fine  fettle.  There  are  perhaps  one 
hundred  acres  of  good  ground  where  hares  are  known 
to  be,  so  I  tramp  along  reading  the  snow-page's 
morning  news  as  I  go.  There  are  many  local 
paragraphs,  all  of  more  or  less  interest.  "  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Fox  Sparrow  and  family  have  taken  that  snug 
cottage, '  The  Briers,'  for  the  winter."  "  The  Messrs. 
Chickadee,  Woodpecker,  and  Nuthatch  are  in  our 
midst.  They  are  expert  prospectors  and  confi- 
dently expect  some  rich  finds.  They  are  at  pres- 
ent exploring  the  big  swale."  "  There  was  an  un- 
seemly row  at  a  dance  last  night,  which  might  have 
ended  seriously  if  our  esteemed  night-watchman, 
Mr.  G.  H.  Owl,  had  not  arrived  in  the  nick  of  time. 


In  the  Haunts  of  tbe  Hare  371 

Mr.  Owl,  always  prompt  and  efficient,  at  once  arrested 
the  notorious  Molly  Cottontail  and  haled  her  before 
the  Beak.  She  was  promptly  put  away."  "  House- 
holders are  warned  that  the  well-known  criminal, 
Brown  Mink,  is  hanging  about  the  neighborhood. 
Our  readers  will  do  well  to  closely  examine  all  fast- 
enings before  retiring."  And  so  they  ran  on  in  the 
usual  backwoods  style. 

To  take  it  seriously,  though,  this  reading  of  the 
snow  is  a  wonderfully  interesting  thing.  Here  the 
delicate  tracery  of  tiny  feet  tells  where  the  seed- 
laden  ragweed  bent  low.  Yonder  a  regular  stitch- 
ing and  a  tiny  furrow  betray  the  feet  and  dragging 
tail  of  a  wood-mouse ;  again,  a  series  of  small  prints 
marks  the  course  of  a  red  squirrel  to  and  from  his 
hidden  granary.  Trim,  close-crowded  marks  tell 
where  a  bevy  of  Bob  Whites  followed  the  zigzag 
shelter  of  a  rail  fence.  At  the  edge  of  the  swale, 
a  single  row  of  round,  evenly  spaced  prints  marks 
the  route  of  a  fox,  and  farther  on  the  sign  tells  that 
he  tried  for  a  grouse  and  missed.  All  the  doings  of 
day  and  night  are  truly  recorded,  and  he  who  loves 
the  wild  things  and  their  affairs  may  be  pardoned 
for  lingering  over  this,  his  morning  paper. 

At  last  I  find  something  which  directly  concerns 
present  business.  It  is  a  rough  triangle  —  the  apex 
two  small  prints,  the  sides  two  long  ones.  It  is  the 
track  of  a  hare,  and  the  distance  between  the  prints 
proves  he  was  going  at  speed.  A  green  hand  almost 
certainly  would  follow  the  back  track.  When  a  suc- 
cession of  big  V's  indicate  a  route,  the  eye  naturally 
follows  the  way  the  points  direct.  In  this  case,  that 
would  be  an  error.  I  have  a  vivid  recollection  of  the 


372  Sporting  Sketches 

first  time  I  followed  a  hare's  track.  It  led  across  an 
open  to  a  big  brush-pile,  under  which  it  ended.  All 
about  was  virgin  snow.  That  the  hare  was  as  good 
as  mine  I  never  doubted,  so  I  kicked  the  pile.  Noth- 
ing showing,  I  mounted  the  pile  and  jumped  on  it 
till  it  rocked  to  its  base.  Still  nothing  appeared. 
Somewhat  mystified,  I  began  to  remove  the  brush, 
a  branch  at  a  time.  This,  with  the  gun  in  one  hand, 
was  slow  work,  and  every  time  a  lump  of  snow  would 
shift  I'd  spring  back  and  bring  the  gun  to  shoulder, 
for  I  knew  that  hare  would  go  like  all  outdoors  when 
it  did  go.  When  I  got  down  to  the  bottom  of  that 
brush-pile,  and  found  only  the  spot  where  a  hare  had 
lain  up,  I  was  mad  and  wise  all  through. 

But  to  return  to  the  trail.  The  track  told  its 
story.  The  maker  of  it  had  been  going  fast,  but 
as  there  was  no  following  track,  the  hare,  presum- 
ably, had  been  bent  upon  urgent  private  affairs,  and 
might  or  might  not  be  anywhere  within  a  circle  of 
one  hundred  yards'  diameter.  The  thing  to  do  was 
to  follow  the  trail  and  find  out.  Now,  following 
the  trail  of  a  hare  through  heavy  cover  is  no  joke. 
He  may  have  visited  every  outpost  of  the  swamp 
during  the  previous  night,  and  again  he  may  not 
have  travelled  a  quarter  of  a  mile  all  told.  In  either 
event,  one  moves  as  though  still-hunting  deer,  ever 
sticking  to  the  track  and  keeping  a  sharp  lookout 
in  front.  When  the  hare  moves,  it  will  be  with  an 
easy  leap  from  some  shelter,  followed  by  a  rush 
through  the  cover  which  carries  the  quarry  from 
sight  with  an  astounding  celerity.  So  the  gun  must 
be  ready  for  rapid  action.  As  a,  rule  the  hare  will 
be  squatting  under  a  brush-pile,  log,  or  fallen  top, 


In  tbe  Haunts  of  tbe  Hare  373 

but  quite  frequently  a  cleft  between  roots,  or  the 
interior  of  a  hollow  stump,  forms  the  hiding-place. 
It  is  odds  on  that  the  hare  sees  its  pursuer  before 
being  discovered,  hence  it  is  as  apt  to  start  from 
almost  under  one's  foot,  or  behind  one's  heels,  as  any- 
where else.  All  wild  creatures,  when  hiding,  appear 
to  know  the  instant  they  are  detected,  whereupon 
they  immediately  make  off.  I  have  more  than  once 
walked  almost  over  a  crouching  hare,  only  to  start  it 
when  I  turned  to  look  for  the  lost  track.  Needless 
to  say,  it  is  very  seldom  the  white  fur  is  seen  amid 
the  snow  before  the  creature  moves.  When  it 
finally  does  start,  one  may  be  astride  of  a  big  log, 
or  snarled  up  in  some  brush,  or  in  any  one  of  a 
dozen  possible  difficulties  which  may  interfere  with 
the  necessary  quick,  sure  shot.  As  a  rule,  however, 
one  sees  a  hazily  denned,  speeding  shape,  and  either 
bowls  puss  over  there  and  then,  or  realizes  the  force 
of  that  ancient  warning  — "  First  catch  your  hare." 
This  sort  of  still-hunting  may  lead  into  all  imagi- 
nable forms  of  bad  going  —  through  brush,  where  dis- 
lodged snow  is  forever  falling ;  through  thorny  stuff 
which  never  seems  to  weary  of  raking  one's  face  and 
hands ;  and,  worst  of  all,  across  ponds  of  unknown 
depth,  the  icy  covering  of  which  may  or  may  not 
bear  a  man's  weight.  It  is,  therefore,  well  to  be  a 
bit  shy  of  nice,  open  levels,  which  offer  the  easiest 
of  walking.  They  are  very  apt  to  mean  ice  and 
more  or  less  water.  To  a  lone  trailer  a  ducking 
in  the  woods  is  no  joke,  and  it  may  prove  quite  a 
serious  matter;  for,  as  a  general  thing,  getting  in 
is  a  heap  easier  than  getting  out. 

So  much  for  the  still-hunting.     It  may  be  that 


374  Sporting  Sketches 

the  track  must  be  followed  through  half  a  hundred 
twists  and  doublings,  which  in  all  demand  more  than 
a  mile  of  trailing.  It  may  be  that  the  hare,  missed 
at  the  first  chance,  must  be  again  trailed  to  wherever 
it  chooses  to  stop.  If  so,  there  is  a  fresh  track  and 
a  hare  at  the  lost  end  of  it ;  and  patience  will  bag 
that  hare.  I  am  free  to  confess  that  I  like  the  silent 
prowling,  the  keen  watching,  the  side  glimpses  of 
other  small  life,  and  that  smack  of  the  long  agony 
of  hope  deferred,  which  are  sure  to  be  the  portion  of 
the  still-hunter. 

Hounding  hare  is  quite  another  matter.  It  has 
its  share  of  action,  its  sweet  bells  jangled  out  of  tune, 
of  dog-voices,  its  tense  situations,  and,  upon  good 
days,  its  sufficiency  of  quick,  accurate  shooting.  It 
has  another  advantage,  too ;  our  modern  Diana  may 
share  it,  an  she  be  so  graciously  disposed.  For 
instance :  — 

"  Ed,  you've  just  got  to  take  me !  I'm  smothered 
—  I  want  to  get  outdoors — I'm  ready — I'll  drive 
— I'll  do  anything!  and" —  here  the  voice  buzzed 
like  a  yellow-jacket  —  "if  you  don't  take  me,  you 
shan't  have  my  dog  —  so  there ! " 

"  All  right,  my  gentle  guinea-hen.  That  tongue 
of  yours  would  be  a  grand  thing  on  a  cold  trail  — 
it's  a  cursed  shame  you  didn't  get  four  legs  when 
they  were  passed  round  —  I'd  take  you  sure,  then," 
I  retorted. 

"You're  just  the  dearest  old  thing  in  all  the — " 
she  began,  but  I  cut  it  short  with  — 

"  That'll  do  now !  —  get  your  hooks  out  of  my 
gray  hairs  and  let  me  be.  I've  got  my  opinion  of 
young  women  who  get  dressed  all  ready  before  they 


In  tbe  Haunts  of  tbe  Hare  375 

ask  if  they're  wanted.  I  don't  want  thee,  sweet 
cousin,  but  I  do  need  thy  dog !  " 

Reader,  especially  female  reader,  don't  raise  your 
eyebrows  and  sniff.  The  young  woman  is  a  spoiled 
pet,  that's  all.  Anyway,  I'm  old  enough  to  be  her 
father,  and  I  taught  her  to  shoot.  During  some 
paretic  interval  I  gave  her  my  one  rabbit-dog,  an 
overgrown  beagle,  by  name  "  Boz,"  and  a  rare  good 
one.  Later  I  tried  to  beg  him  back  and  was  sent 
to  Coventry  for  a  period  of  one  week.  So  there 
you  are. 

Within  half  an  hour  nag  and  sleigh  were  ready, 
and  away  we  went.  There  was  just  enough  snow  for 
good  slipping,  and  cousin's  small  hands  kept  the 
nag  at  his  best  pace  until  she  pulled  him  up  at  a 
farm-house  some  five  miles  from  the  starting-point. 

As  we  tramped  toward  the  chosen  ground,  —  a  big, 
almost  impenetrable  swamp  surrounded  by  woods,  — 
she  led  the  way.  I  looked  her  over  and  she  was 
good  to  see.  The  gray  "  Fedora,"  with  its  grouse's 
plume,  closely  matched  the  sweater,  easy-fitting 
cord  coat,  and  short  skirt.  She  was  a  symphony  in 
gray,  with  which  the  stout,  oil-tanned  boots  and 
scrap  of  dull  crimson  ribbon  had  no  quarrel.  Very 
feminine,  also  foxy,  was  that  wholly  unnecessary 
scrap  of  ribbon.  Two  autumns  before  we  had 
chanced  upon  a  beauteous  thing —  a  great  frond  of 
crimson  sumach  draping  a  mole-gray,  mossy  rail. 
That  combination  I  had  worshipped  there  and 
then,  and  —  well,  she  being  a  woman,  etc.  Easy  in 
every  movement,  she  swung  along  with  a  business- 
like stride  which  would  tire  many  a  man,  and  as  I 
watched  I  thought  with  pleasure  of  the  thousands 


376  Sporting  Sketches 

of  other  girls  of  the  rational  school  —  the  mothers 
yet  to  be  of  a  sturdy  race,  which,  so  long  as  it  sticks 
to  the  grand  outdoors,  will  never  lose  its  Anglo- 
Saxon  might.  The  gun  upon  her  shoulder  was  as  a 
featherweight  to  that  lithe,  graceful  figure,  a  toy  to 
the  strong,  small  hands  and  firmly  muscled  arms. 

Where  an  old  road  traversed  the  swamp  were  our 
vantage-points,  and  we  took  stands  some  fifty  yards 
apart.  Boz  had  needed  no  instructions  —  he  was 
already  somewhere  in  the  cover  searching  for  a 
fresh  track.  Lil  brushed  the  snow  from  a  log,  rested 
her  gun  against  a  sapling,  and  sat  down  ;  I  filled  my 
pipe  and  stood  peering  into  the  heavy  brush.  For 
perhaps  twenty  minutes  we  waited,  then  a  single 
sharp  bark  came  to  us.  Lil's  clear  soprano  an- 
swered with  a  cheery,  far-reaching  cry,  then  the  dog 
barked  again.  This  was  his  signal  that  he  had 
located  some  trail  worth  following.  Presently  there 
rose  a  sudden  storm  of  music  —  a  confusion  of  dog- 
language,  as  though  a  dozen  canine  tongues  had 
been  loosed  together ;  then  abrupt  silence. 

"  Look  out  —  he's  started !  "  I  called,  and  the  gray 
figure  straightened  up,  gun  in  hand.  For  a  few 
seconds  we  listened  in  vain,  then  came  the  welcome 
message.  Like  the  Switzer's  call  it  clove  the 
snowy  aisles  of  silence  until  the  forest  rang  with 
sweetest  melody.  Louder  and  clearer  it  swelled,  till 
one  might  well  marvel  that  one  small  dog's  throat 
could  cause  it  all.  Then  it  muffled  as  he  swept 
through  some  hollow,  only  to  rise  and  ring  like  a 
bell  that  flings  good  news  to  a  waiting  host.  It 
was  evident  that  Boz  had  got  well  away  with  his 
game  and  was  driving  at  top  s'peed.  A  long  cir- 


377 

cling,  a  period  of  doubt,  and  then  a  rapid,  insistent 
tonguing,  steadily  increasing  in  power,  told  that 
the  quarry  had  decided  to  cross  the  road. 

And  now  the  thrilling  moment  of  hare  shooting. 
The  animal  might  take  the  road  for  a  distance,  but 
in  all  probability  it  would  burst,  like  a  puff  of  wind- 
driven  snow,  from  the  cover,  take  two  long  leaps  in 
the  open,  then  dive  into  the  opposite  cover  with 
all  the  headlong  abandon  of  a  big  frog  going  to 
water.  Sharp  work  this,  for  there's  no  telling  how 
close  behind  the  dog  may  be. 

We  were  both  at  the  ready  as  need  demanded. 
A  roar  from  the  dog  told  that  for  an  instant  he  had 
sighted,  then  a  long,  white  shape  curved  from  the 
brush  to  the  road  and  rose  again  with  rubbery  ease. 
Smooth,  silent,  swift  as  it  was,  the  girl's  trained 
muscles  beat  it.  I  whirled  about  and  humped  my 
back,  for  small  shot  stingeth  like  an  adder,  and  even 
a  glancing  pellet  is  bad  for  one's  eye.  As  I 
dodged,  my  ear  caught  the  quick,  vicious  squinge- 
squinge  of  the  lightly  charged  shells,  followed  by  a 
ringing  note.  No  mistaking  the  triumph  vibrant 
through  that  call  —  the  small  hands,  the  keen  young 
eyes,  had  done  the  trick,  and  the  old  fool-teacher  felt 
prouder  than  if  he  had  done  it. 

Mutely  eager,  the  dog  flung  himself  across  the 
trail  to  make  sure,  then  his  sickle  tail  waved  slowly 
and  proudly  as  he  paused  and  snorted  gruffly  over 
something  in  the  snow. 

"  Did  I  miss  him  ?  "  shrilled  an  anxious  voice. 

Up  went  the  dog's  nose,  and  he  jangled  out  his 
version  of  —  "  We  —  killed  —  the  —  hare  !  " 

"  All  right,"  I  said  as  I  picked  up  the  fat  fellow 


378  Sporting  Sketches 

and  drew  the  long  body  through  my  gripping  left 
hand  —  a  stripping  process  that  is  good  for  dead 
hares.  His  ears  looked  like  the  top  of  a  pepper- 
caster,  and  I  gloried  in  the  swift,  clean  work.  Then 
I  carried  the  prize  to  the  radiant  owner. 

Rail  against  it  if  you  must,  O  prudes,  but  I  be- 
lieve in  any  rational  sport  which  can  kindle  the 
spark  of  triumph  in  a  woman's  eye  and  send  the 
rich  red  of  pure  delight  to  her  cheek.  As  I  looked 
at  her  and  heard  her  ecstatic  "  My,  he's  a  fine  fat 
fellow ! "  it  did  seem  that  any  decent  buck  rabbit 
ought  to  welcome  annihilation  from  such  a  source. 
Being  a  man,  and  just  naturally  more  or  less  of  a 
brute,  all  I  said  was  — 

"  Awfully  sorry,  coz,  but  I  couldn't  help  shooting 
ahead  of  you  —  weren't  you  a  trifle  slow  ?  " 

She  looked  me  squarely  in  the  eye  for  what  felt 
like  an  hour,  then  the  words  came  like  the  final  ham- 
mer-raps on  a  rivet  — 

"  Y-o-u  b-r-u-t-e !  And  you  standing  there  with 
your  back  humped  and  everything  pulled  in  like  an 
old  mud-turtle,  when  I  wasn't  holding  within  ten 
yards  of  you ! " 


xxvnn 


TTWIE 

A  SHINING  February  morning  and  a  great  white, 
shining  world  —  white  as  the  soul  of  a  child  !  Over 
it  all  an  infinity  of  flawless  blue,  with  never  a  token 
to  prove  that  from  it  fell,  but  a  few  hours  before,  the 
world's  fair  garb  of  snow.  Eastward  blazed  that 
gold-faced  god  who  makes  a  typical  winter  day  the 
wondrous,  indescribable  thing  it  is. 

It  was  cold  outside,  and  I  knew  it.  My  argument 
with  a  devilled  kidney  had  been  interrupted  more 
than  once  by  sharp  reports  like  pistol-shots,  which 
told  that  the  frost  had  touched  a  tree,  or  started  a 
nail  in  the  clapboards.  When  the  kidney  had  ac- 
knowledged getting  the  worst  of  it,  moccasins,  heavy 
pea-jacket,  fur  cap,  warm  gloves,  were  donned,  and 
forth  I  fared  to  find  what  such  a  peerless  day  had  in 
store.  The  air  was  keen  as  Eastern  lance  and  glit- 
tered with  myriad  diamond  lights  ;  it  was  as  exhila- 
rating as  iced  wine,  and  three  chestfuls  of  it  started 
me  running  down  the  snowy  road  in  sheer  exuber- 
ance of  animal  spirits.  Presently  a  merry  jingle  of 
bells  sounded  and  a  merrier  voice  exclaimed,  u  Look 
out  !  or  I'll  run  you  down." 

No  need  to  look  round,  for  I  knew  the  voice  ;  so 
I  merely  answered,  "  You  couldn't  run  a  lame  dog 
down  with  that  old  skate  !  "  Then  I  ran  as  if  the 

379 


380  Sporting  Sketches 

fiend  was  on  my  track,  for  a  four-minute  bay  road- 
ster and  a  dainty  Portland  were  behind,  and  Jim 
would  as  soon  do  what  he  said  as  not. 

For  a  hundred  yards  we  had  it  hot  as  we  could 
lay  foot  to  snow;  then  I  heard  the  dull  blows  of  fly- 
ing feet  and  a  sharp  "  Hi !  "  and  dodged  aside  just 
in  time  to  clear  the  rush  of  one  of  the  tidiest  gentle- 
man's roadsters  in  the  country. 

Jim  could  hardly  pull  up  inside  of  fifty  yards,  for 
the  good  bay's  blood  was  hot ;  but  finally  the  horse 
steadied,  and  Jim  sung  out:  "Come,  pile  in  here! 
I  want  to  use  you." 

"What  for?" 

"  I'm  off  for  the  bay.  Spearing's  prime,  and  we'll 
have  a  try  at  it.  Everything's  ready  down  there  — 
spears  and  all  in  the  shanty  —  so  in  you  get." 

No  better  fun  was  wanted,  and  away  we  jingled 
through  the  town  and  thence  westward  over  an 
excellent  country  road  toward  Mitchell's  Bay,  on 
Lake  St.  Clair,  famous  for  black  bass,  'lunge,  and 
waterfowl  since  the  days  of  "  Frank  Forester." 

Mile  after  mile  our  game  horse  flung  behind,  now 
passing  fat  farms  —  great  levels  of  white  —  now 
waking  the  echoes  of  dense,  shadowy  woods  with 
the  crisp  jingle  of  the  bells,  until  at  last  we  reached 
the  frozen  marsh  and  the  small  hotel  beside  the  bay. 

Very  brief  time  sufficed  for  final  arrangements,  and 
we  were  soon  in  our  shanty,  one  of  several  similar 
in  construction  that  were  scattered  over  the  ice. 
These  shanties  are  built  of  rough  boards  and  are 
large  enough  to  accommodate  two  men  and  leave 
room  for  a  small  stove.  The  repfs  are  high  enough 
to  allow  the  use  of  a  short-handled  spear,  and  fre- 


Fishing  through  the  Ice  381 

quently  the  shanties  are  mounted  upon  runners  of 
plank  to  facilitate  moving  from  point  to  point.  It  is 
comfortable  and  dark  inside  a  shanty  when  once  the 
door  is  shut,  for  there  is  no  window,  the  object  being 
to  exclude  all  light  save  what  strays  upward  through 
the  clear  ice-floor. 

When  a  shanty  is  ready  for  business,  it  is  stationed 
on  the  ice  above  some  known  shoal  or  channel 
favored  of  fish;  a  little  snow  is  banked  up  around 
the  house  and  an  opening  of  convenient  size  cut 
through  the  ice  inside.  This  hole  is  carefully  cleared 
of  all  fragments  of  ice,  and  when  the  shanty  door  is 
closed,  one  can  peer  down  into  the  haunts  of  fish. 

The  grandest  prize  to  fall  to  the  spearman's  skill 
is,  of  course,  a  "  'lunge,"  as  the  mascalonge  is 
termed,  and  to  attract  his  lordship  within  striking 
distance,  an  artificial  minnow  is  attached  to  a  string 
and  caused  to  play  about  a  short  distance  below  the 
surface  of  the  exposed  water.  When  a  fish  of  goodly 
size  shows  within  safe  reach,  a  swift  thrust  with  the 
three,  four,  or  sometimes  five  tined  spear  secures  or 
misses  the  game,  as  the  case  may  be. 

Jim  and  I  sat  side  by  side,  gazing  downward. 
I  manipulated  the  minnow,  while  he  held  the  spear 
ready  for  instant  action.  Below  were  soft,  shadowy, 
green  depths,  half-illumined  by  a  weird,  ghostly  light 
which  seemed  to  come  from  nowhere  and  to  reveal 
nothing.  But  soon  our  eyes  seemed  to  focus 
properly,  as  it  were,  and  the  view  broadened.  We 
could  distinguish  faint  forms  of  water-weeds,  and 
once  or  twice  a  gilded  perch  sailed  solemnly  across 
the  silence  below,  like  a  seared  leaf  wind  driven. 

It  was  very  pretty  and  fascinating,  and   I  swam 


382  Sporting  Sketches 

the  lure  minnow  in  most  artistic  style  for  a  consider- 
able time.  Then  something  came !  It  came,  it 
saw,  it  vanished,  leaving  a  phosphorescent  gleam  in 
the  water  to  mark  its  lightning  flight.  I  had  barely 
time  to  note  that  it  was  a  sturdy  old  bass,  and  Jim's 
hand  hardly  closed  on  the  spear  ere  it  had  gained 
the  dim  whence.  It  evidently  wanted  naught  of 
the  minnow  or  spear. 

More  time  passed,  and  then  came  a  pickerel. 
Slow  and  shining,  he  floated  upward,  his  wall-eyes 
glowing  on  the  fancied  prey,  and  Jim  poked  fun 
into  him  vigorously ;  and  the  pointed  joke  was  too 
much  for  pickerel  self-control,  and  he  let  his  life  slip 
away  in  his  excitement.  Three  or  four  more  were 
taken  in  the  same  fashion  within  the  hour,  and  they 
were  all  fine  fish  of  their  kind.  Then  Jim  insisted 
that  I  should  take  the  spear  and  let  him  play  the 
lure. 

For  half  an  hour  I  sat  and  stared  at  the  water. 
Then  I  yawned  and  filled  my  pipe  anew,  and  then  it 
may  be  that  I  fretted  at  the  hard  luck  on  general 
principles.  Be  that  as  it  may,  I  presently  spied 
something  which  roused  all  the  fierce  impulse  of 
sport  in  me.  Jim  saw  it,  too,  and  he  played  his 
minnow  a  trifle  farther  away. 

From  under  the  lower  edge  of  the  ice  crept 
something  that  looked  for  all  the  world  like  the  toe 
of  an  old  rubber  boot,  surrounded  by  a  luminous  halo. 
Farther  and  farther  it  crept,  so  slowly  that  it  seemed 
scarce  to  move,  until  it  showed  a  greener  cast  and 
bony  ridges.  Then  the  gleam  in  the  water  increased, 
and  we  saw  two  terrible  eyes  that  glowed  like  wee 
incandescent  lamps.  Then  Jim  suddenly  lowered 


Fisbing  through  the  Ice  383 

his  minnow  a  few  inches,  the  apparition  glided  for- 
ward, and  I  drove  the  spear  downward  with  all  the 
force  and  speed  my  arm  could  impart.  Through 
the  wooden  handle  I  felt  the  crush  and  grind  of 
steel  through  bones,  and  knew  'twas  well.  The 
shaft  swept  round  in  response  to  a  failing,  swirling 
rush,  and  we  promptly  lifted  from  the  hole  a  dead 
fish,  for  the  spear  had  cut  the  spine  just  at  the 
junction  with  the  head.  The  fish  was  by  no  means 
as  heavy  as  many  I  have  seen,  but  it  was  large 
enough  for  our  ambition,  and,  best  of  all,  we  had  it 
safe. 

That  was  spearing  as  it  is  apt  to  average  upon 
those  lucky  days  when  everything  works  just  right, 
but  not  seldom  there  are  trifling  mishaps  and  once 
in  a  long  while  a  truly  perilous  experience. 

One  sunny  morning  two  of  us  snapped  skates  to 
boots  and  started  for  the  bay,  where  fifty  or  more 
Frenchmen  made  a  business  of  winter  spearing. 
We  anticipated  great  results.  But  we  had  a  long 
distance  to  skate,  and  did  not  reach  our  shanty 
before  noon. 

The  big  frog-eater  in  charge  greeted  us  warmly 
and  said:  "  Oui,  dis  grate  day;  but  you  should  bin 
here  before.  Mebbe  vataire  milky  'fore  long." 

We  didn't  care  a  continental  whether  the  water 
might  get  "  milky,"  and  in  brief  time  the  Frenchman 
left  us  alone.  When  we  first  shut  ourselves  in  our 
little  cabin,  everything  appeared  black  as  tar,  but 
gradually  our  eyes  grew  accustomed  to  the  strange 
half-light  from  ice  and  water.  My  comrade  first  took 
the  spear,  while  I  worked  the  decoy-minnow.  A 
board  formed  a  seat,  and  we  sat  side  by  side,  he 


384  Sporting  Sketches 

with  the  spear  ready  and  I  holding  the  decoy  string, 
which  I  manipulated  in  such  a  way  as  to  cause  the 
"minnow"  to  waver  about,  so  that  fish  far  below 
could  see  the  lure.  We  could  see  far  down  into 
what  was  apparently  bottomless  green  space.  A  sub- 
marine jungle  of  streaming,  brownish  weeds  spread 
afar  in  every  direction ;  dim,  shadowy  caverns  and 
corridors  showed  faintly,  and  now  and  then  a  glint 
of  silvery  light  or  a  ghostly  shadow  seemed  to  drift 
through  them.  I  worked  the  minnow  zealously  for 
nearly  an  hour,  and  at  last  something  came  rising 
solemnly  toward  us.  Just  as  I  made  out  a  pair  of 
glowing  eyes,  the  spear  shot  viciously  downward  and 
we  had  what  proved  to  be  a  pickerel.  It  was  a  good- 
sized  fish  and  we  felt  encouraged.  The  next  wait 
was  very  brief.  A  big  form  flashed  into  view,  hesi- 
tated an  instant,  then  vanished  like  lightning.  The 
spear  made  an  impotent  thrust,  seconds  too  late, 
and  the  spearman's  voice  exclaimed :  "  Gee !  what 
was  it  ?  "  "  It  was  a  big  bass,  you  chump,  and  you 
let  it  get  away ! "  was  my  polite  reply.  Presently 
another  fine  pickerel  rose  and  was  secured,  and  it 
was  followed  by  two  others.  Still  I  waggled  the 
decoy  and  the  spearman  remarked,  "  This  is  great !  " 
Then  he  changed  his  position  so  that  one  of  his  boots 
projected  half  its  length  over  the  hole.  Neither  of 
us  noticed  it  at  the  time,  for  we  were  intently  watch- 
ing something  more  interesting.  Down  below  was 
a  half-defined  shape  —  a  'lunge,  and  a  whacker  in 
comparison  to  the  victims  we  had  speared.  For 
seconds  it  rose  so  slowly  that  we  could  hardly  see  it 
move;  then  it  gave  an  unexpected  dart  and  came 
right  into  the  hole.  The  suddenness  of  its  rush 


Fishing  through  the  Ice  385 

rattled  the  spearman  and  he  made  a  fierce  random 
jab.  A  yell,  a  splash,  some  sultry  talk,  and  he  pulled 
his  soaked  leg  out  of  the  hole  and  limped  grunt- 
ing about  on  the  ice,  while  I  secured  the  spear  and 
remarked,  "  Well,  you  are  a  clever  duck  ! " 

"  I  druv  the  blank  thing  into  me  foot,"  he  howled ; 
and,  sure  enough,  he  had  punched  a  hole  through 
boot  and  skin.  When  I  got  the  spear  and  tried  to 
see  below,  I  found  matters  had  changed.  The  erst- 
while transparent  water  seemed  whitish,  and  soon  I 
could  see  naught  but  the  soapy-looking  surface. 

A  thump  at  the  door  and  a  voice  outside  saying, 
"  Vataire  got  milky ;  dere  no  more  feesh  to-day ! " 
warned  us  that  the  fun  was  over.  As  we  snapped 
on  our  skates,  the  unlucky  one  whispered :  "  You 
tell  about  my  foot  an'  I'll  make  it  hot  for  you ! " 
This  is  the  first  I've  said  about  it. 

The  fishing  with  hook  and  line  is  sportsmanlike 
enough  to  qualify  as  a  legitimate  amusement,  and  is 
by  far  the  most  popular  with  the  good  souls  and 
true  who  love  an  outing  for  its  own  sake,  and  would 
take  fish,  or  take  cold,  with  pleasure,  providing  a 
certain  amount  of  fun  was  attached  to  the  business. 

In  this  method  of  winter  fishing,  baited  hooks, 
attached  to  lines  of  suitable  length,  are  passed 
through  small  holes  cut  in  the  ice,  the  upper  ends 
of  the  lines  being  either  held  in  the  hands  of  the 
fisherman,  or  affixed  to  what  are  termed  "  tip-ups." 
When  these  tip-ups  are  used,  they  allow  one  man  to 
attend  to  as  many  lines  as  he  pleases,  and  to  skate 
or  slide  about,  or  watch  the  indicators  from  beside  a 
bonfire  or  from  a  warm  shanty,  as  may  be  preferred. 

There  are  various  styles  of  tip-ups.     Some  are  so 

2C 


386  Sporting  Sketches 

constructed  as  to  actually  tip  over  when  a  fish  bites, 
hence  the  name ;  while  others  are  simply  uprights  of 
lath  or  light  stuff  a  couple  of  feet  long,  to  the  upper 
ends  of  which  are  attached  arms  of  wood  which 
pivot  easily  upon  a  nail  or  screw.  The  preparations 
for  the  fishing  are  few  and  readily  completed.  With 
tip-ups  properly  constructed,  the  fisherman  seeks 
frozen  lake  or  stream,  and  with  small  axe  or  chisel 
cuts  the  requisite  number  of  holes  through  the  ice  and 
carefully  removes  all  floating  fragments  to  prevent 
the  orifices  coating  over  rapidly  in  a  biting  atmos- 
phere. Close  to  each  of  these  holes  a  deep  niche 
is  cut  in  the  ice,  and  in  this  the  armless  end  of 
a  tip-up  is  set  and  firmly  tamped  with  chopped 
ice  or  snow.  A  small  quantity  of  water  is  then 
splashed  or  poured  upon  the  tamping,  which 
speedily  solidifies  and  holds  the  tip-up  firmly. 
When  all  the  tip-ups  are  in  position,  the  tackle  is 
put  in  place. 

A  hook  is  baited,  generally  with  a  bit  of  pork  fat 
or  bacon  rind,  and  dropped  through  one  of  the  holes ; 
a  turn  of  the  line  is  taken  around  the  free  end  of 
the  movable  arm,  and  the  end  of  the  line  brought 
down  the  upright  and  tied  fast  close  to  the  ice. 
This  reduces  the  leverage  when  a  fish  pulls,  and 
prevents  the  tip-up  from  being  dragged  from  its 
moorings.  When  the  lines  are  set,  the  last  opera- 
tion is  to  see  that  all  the  movable  arms  are  vertical 
and  in  true  line  with  the  uprights.  When  a  fish 
pulls  at  the  bait  below,  the  arm  of  the  tip-up  yields,  its 
free  end  pointing  toward  the  hole  in  the  ice  and 
signalling  that  a  quarry  of  some'kind  has  tampered 
with  the  bait.  Then  the  fisherman  makes  all  speed 


Fishing  through  the  Ice  387 

to  the  spot  and  hauls  up  the  struggling  captive. 
Frequently,  when  a  number  of  lines  are  set  and  the 
fish  are  biting  freely,  two  or  more  tip-ups  will  signal 
at  the  same  time.  Then  the  fisherman  rushes  from 
one  to  another  in  mad  haste  and  there  is  fun  galore, 
especially  if  the  ice  happens  to  be  smooth  and  the 
owner  of  the  tip-ups  does  not  have  skates. 

I  have  seen  a  long  row  of  these  lines  set  on  a 
lake  and  a  party  of  half-a-dozen  dignified  business 
men  watching  them  from  the  shelter  of  a  fish  shanty. 
One  or  more  wooden  arms  would  dip,  and  lo !  an 
avalanche  of  excited  mortals  would  burst  through 
the  doorway  like  a  parcel  of  boys  from  school,  and 
speed  across  the  treacherous  surface  —  running,  slip- 
ping, sliding,  falling,  and  whooping  and  yelling  in 
wild  delight,  till  the  tip-ups  were  reached  and  the 
prizes  secured.  Those  stately  old  kings  of  com- 
merce were  more  or  less  gray-headed,  and  maybe 
a  bit  austere  when  at  home,  but  they  were  just  frosty- 
whiskered  boys  when  the  tip-ups  signalled.  Next 
day  they  were  doubtless  stiff  as  to  muscles,  and 
black  and  blue  in  spots  where  the  ice  hit  them ;  but 
they  had  enjoyed  uproarious,  healthful  fun,  freed 
their  minds  for  the  time  of  all  worry,  filled  their 
lungs  with  air  that  made  them  new  men,  and,  best 
of  all,  they  had  laughed  the  laugh  that  does  men 
good  —  the  laugh  of  pure,  clean  mirth. 

Exciting  and  hilarious  as  this  sport  generally  is, 
it  sometimes  ends  in  trouble,  or  at  least  a  thorough 
scare  for  its  laughing  votaries.  The  element  of 
danger  enters  into  it  under  certain  conditions,  and 
it  is  not  alone  the  possibility  of  an  unexpected  duck- 
ing when  some  careless  person  finds  an  unsuspected 


388  Sporting  Sketches 

weak  spot  in  the  ice.  One  such  experience  will  illus- 
trate the  possibilities.  Half  a  dozen  of  us  formed  a 
fishing  party  and  skated  down  the  Thames  River  to 
Lake  St.  Clair,  intent  upon  trying  the  tip-ups. 

It  was  a  long  skate,  but  a  stiff  breeze  was  at  our 
backs  and  we  spun  along  famously.  In  due  time  we 
reached  the  lake  and  found  that  a  floe  of  shore-ice 
extended  outward  for  perhaps  something  over  a  mile. 
Beyond  its  further  limit  gleamed  an  expanse  of 
heaving,  ice-cold  billows.  In  brief  time  we  had 
knocked  the  snow  off  a  goodly  supply  of  driftwood 
and  built  a  roaring  bonfire.  Then  we  skated  some 
distance  out  upon  the  ice  over  a  well-known  shallow 
and  rigged  the  tip-ups.  Fish  were  not  in  good  biting 
humor,  and  victims  were  caught  but  slowly.  After 
an  hour  or  so  of  rather  tame  sport  we  got  careless 
and  skated  hither  and  thither,  frequently  visiting  the 
fire  and  occasionally  dashing  for  the  tip-ups  at  rac- 
ing speed  when  a  strike  was  indicated.  It  was  fun 
of  its  kind,  and  we  fooled  away  time,  hoping  the 
wind,  which  was  against  our  homeward  trip,  would 
either  moderate  or  change.  At  last,  for  some  un- 
known reason,  one  of  the  crowd  skated  far  out 
toward  open  water,  and  after  yelling  in  vain  for  him 
to  return,  we  all  straggled  along  after  him,  letting 
the  wind  blow  us  as  it  pleased. 

We  had  got  within  about  fifty  yards  of  him,  when 
he  suddenly  swerved  in  his  course  and  faced  about, 
made  a  few  hasty  strokes,  and  halted.  We  guessed 
that  he  had  reached  dangerous  ice ;  so  we  scattered 
to  spread  our  weight  over  a  broader  surface  and 
leisurely  slowed  up. 

Suddenly  he  pointed  for  the  shore,  and  with  a 


Fishing  through  the  Ice 


389 


yell  darted  ahead  at  his  topmost  speed.  Every  man 
guessed  what  he  meant,  and,  like  so  many  horses  at 
score,  we  wheeled  and  broke  away  with  him  as  he 
flashed  past.  It  was  well  that  we  did.  All  eyes 
turned  toward  our  fire,  and  we  knew  that  our  work 
was  cut  out  for  us.  Halfway  between  our  position 
and  the  shore  a  long  line  of  white  spray  was  splash- 
ing above  the  ice,  and  we  knew  that  the  floe  had 
parted  and  was  drifting. 

It  was  a  hard  drive  against  the  wind,  and  for  half 
a  minute  or  more  the  steel  blades  rang  in  furious 
cadence.  The  head  man  marked  the  narrowest 
place  in  the  broadening  fissure,  and  shouting, 
"Jump!  Swim!  Get  there!"  swerved  a  trifle  and 
shot  at  it.  He  rose  like  a  steeplechaser,  cleared  a 
seven-foot  crack,  and  landed  fair  and  true.  Rip-zip 
—  rip-zip  !  an  instant's  scared  glance  at  the  increas- 
ing space,  and  one  after  another  we  set  our  teeth 
and  raced  down  to  the  take-off  and  leaped  as  we  had 
never  leaped  before.  Two  fell  on  landing,  but  all 
got  over  dry  and  safe,  though  with  quivering  mus- 
cles and  thumping  hearts.  It  was  an  extremely  close 
thing,  and  next  morning  that  parted  floe  was  piled 
in  small  fragments  by  a  furious  gale  somewhere 
about  the  mouth  of  the  grand  Detroit  River,  miles 
to  the  westward. 


By  EDWYN   SANDYS 
Author  of  "  Upland  Game  Birds,"  "  Trapper  '  Jim,' "  etc. 

With  Illustrations  by  J.  M.  GLEESON  and  C.  W.  PANCOAST 
Cloth  12  mo  $1.5O 

"We  feel  a  sincere  sympathy  for  the  sportsman,  young  or  old,  who  has  not 
known  the  pleasure  of  following  Edwyn  Sandys'  'Trapper  Jim'  and  'Sports- 
man Joe,'  each  in  their  separate  and  varied  careers,  through  some  350  pages 
of  about  the  most  fascinating  literature  imaginable.  Besides  being  human 
interest  stories,  these  two  books  are  veritable  storehouses  of  accurate  sports- 
man lore,  so  skilfully  inserted  as  to  impress  this  knowledge  indelibly  on  the 
retina  of  the  mind  without  in  even  the  smallest  measure  sacrificing  the 
interest."  —  N.  Y.  American. 


TRAPPER  "JIM" 

By  EDWYN  SANDYS 

Author  of  "  Upland  Game  Birds,"  etc. 

With  illustrations  from  photographs,  drawings,  and  diagrams 
Cloth  12mo  $1.50 

"A  book  for  every  up-to-date  boy,  not  only  because  he  will  thoroughly 
enjoy  it,  and  learn  much  from  it,  but  also  because  it  will  make  him  more 
manly."  —  Boston  Transcript. 

"  Sufficient  to  gain  for  him  the  friendship  of  all  live  boys  who  read  it ;  ... 
so  interesting  that  the  average  boy  will  throw  away  a  story  of  Indians  or 
detectives  to  read  it."  —  The  Jteader. 

"  A  kind  of  holiday  in  itself.  It  feeds  the  hungry  imagination.  .  .  .  The 
boy  who  cannot  feast  upon  this  provision,  deliciously  presented,  ought  to  ask 
the  doctor  to  look  at  his  tongue."  —  The  Watchman. 


THE    MACMILLAN    COMPANY 

64-66   FIFTH  AVENUE,    NEW   YORK 


UPLAND  GAME  BIRDS 

By  EDWYN  SANDYS  and  T.    S.   VAN  DYKE 

With  numerous  illustrations  by  L.  A.  FUERTES,  A.  B.  FROST,  J.  O.  NUGENT, 
and  C.  L.  BULL 

Cloth  Crown  8vo  $2.OO  net 

"It  is  a  creditable  work,  written  with  care  and  intelligence,  and  will  be 
found  very  entertaining  by  those  who  pursue  feathered  game.  There  is  a 
good  deal  of  instruction  to  be  found  in  the  work,  which  is  likely  to  add  con- 
siderably to  the  success  of  the  sportsman  when  hunting  the  birds  described." 

—  Shooting  and  Fishing. 


THE  STILL  HUNTER 

By  THEODORE   S.   VAN  DYKE 

With  numerous  illustrations  by  CARL  RUNGIUS  and  the  Author 
Cloth  Crown  8vo  $1.75  net 

"  A  vivid  account  of  the  most  exciting  sport  in  the  world.  It  is  the  record 
of  years  of  experience  under  the  old  circumstances,  of  years  of  hunting  when 
the  game  was  so  shy  that  only  craft  almost  or  nearly  equal  to  that  of  the 
quarry  itself  was  necessary  for  a  successful  shot.  It  is  crammed  full  of  valu- 
able advice  for  the  deer  hunter,  and  it  has  the  advantage  of  having  been 
written  before  hunting  became  more  of  a  pastime  than  a  serious  business, 
requiring  untiring  energy,  great  patience,  cool  nerves,  and  perfect  sight." 

—  Chicago  Tribune. 


THE   MACMILLAN    COMPANY 

64-66  FIFTH  AVENUE,   NEW  YORK 


The  American  Sportsman's  Library 

Under  the  general  editorship  of  CASPAR  WHITNEY,  editor  of  Outing 

Cloth          Crown  8vo         $2.00  net  each 
EACH   VOLUME  PROFUSELY  ILLUSTRATED 

THE   DEER  FAMILY 

By  THEODORE  ROOSEVELT,  T.  S.  VAN  DYKE,  D.  G.  ELLIOTT,  and 

A.  J.  STONE 
SALMON   AND  TROUT 

By  DEAN  SAGE,  W.  C.  HARRIS,  H.  M.  SMITH,  and  C.  H.  TOWNSEND 
UPLAND  GAME   BIRDS 

By  EDWYN  SANDYS  and  T.  S.  VAN  DYKE 
THE   WATER-FOWL   FAMILY 

By  L.  C.  SANFORD,  L.  B.  BISHOP,  and  T.  S.  VAN  DYKE 
BASS,   PIKE,   PERCH,   AND   OTHERS 

By  J.  A.  HENSHALL 
THE   BIG  GAME   FISHES   OF  THE  UNITED   STATES 

By  CHARLES  F.  HOLDER 
MUSK-OX,   BISON,   SHEEP,   AND   GOAT 

By  CASPAR  WHITNEY,  GEORGE  B.  GRINNELL,  and  OWEN  WISTER 
GUNS,   AMMUNITION,   AND  TACKLE 

By  Capt.  A.  W.  MONEY,  HORACE  KEPHART,  W.  E.  CARLIN,  A.  L.  A.  HIM- 

MELWRIGHT,  and  J.  HARRINGTON  K.EENE 
THE   SPORTING  DOG 

By  JOSEPH  A.  GRAHAM 
AMERICAN   YACHTING 

By  W.  B.  STEPHENS 
LAWN  TENNIS  AND   LACROSSE 

By  J.  PARMLY  PARET  and  Dr.  W.  H.  MADDREN 
THE  TROTTING   AND   THE   PACING   HORSE 

By  HAMILTON  BUSBEY 
THE  AMERICAN  THOROUGHBRED 

By  CHARLES  E.  TREVATHAN 
RIDING   AND   DRIVING 

By  EDWARD  L.  ANDERSON  and  PRICE  COLLIER 
PHOTOGRAPHY   FOR  THE   SPORTSMAN  NATURALIST 

By  L.  W.  BROWNELL 

In  Preparation  for  Early  Issue: 
THE  BEAR   FAMILY 

COUGAR,   WILD-CAT,   WOLF,   AND   FOX 
ROWING  AND  TRACK  ATHLETICS 
BASEBALL  AND   FOOTBALL 

SKATING,   HOCKEY,   AND   SKATE  SAILING 


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A     000674313 


